It was a hot summer day in the Bronx, circa 2013. Yet, the air felt cold and timid in our apartment. It was a school day, so I quickly hopped out of bed. As soon as my feet hit the floor, I was hit by a sharp smell of spices and smoke from the stove. The roars of my father and my mother’s piercing whines mixed, shaking the ground beneath me. I walked into the kitchen, feeling overwhelmed. What are they arguing about? Will he hit her again? Will mommy throw something? My excitement for the day evaporated, as I retreated to my room, pulled the sheets over my head, and daydreamed about a peaceful family—like the sitcoms “Girl Meets World” or “Good Luck Charlie” I watched growing up. If I couldn’t escape to television, I’d escape through writing, drawing, or reading. I just wanted to feel safe. As elementary school ended, so did my parents’ marriage. I had to adjust to a new normal: visiting my father in New York for the holidays and spending the rest of my time with my mother. Watching my life crumble became so confusing. What was so mundane to me, living underneath the same roof as my parents, suddenly became a rare occurrence, like observing a shooting star for the first time. How could I just forget how everything used to be? How could I live within a new space of life? Those were my thoughts as my younger self was surrounded by the whirlwind of life changes my parents created. Each holiday spent with my father felt like a bittersweet reunion. I saw glimpses of the man he used to be—a loving dad, always ready with a joke or a story, but there was still a shadow between us. He often ducked into his room to avoid my mother’s calls, or just screamed at her over the phone, saying how evil she is for not letting us stay with him more. I felt the weight of unspoken words and unresolved tension. It was hard to reconcile the joyful memories I had of our family with the present reality. I would sit on the living room couch, flicking through channels as laughter from a canned audience wafted from the screen, wishing for my own laughter to return soon. After my parents' separation, my mother tried to make our new living situation feel stable. She decorated our town-home with family photographs and new furniture, transforming it into a place I could call home. Yet, deep down, I could feel her pain resonate in the cracks of the walls. The silence that followed my father’s departure was deafening. I’d often catch her staring out the window, her mind lost in echoes of the life she once had. I wanted to reach out, to comfort her, but words eluded me. Now, at 18, I grapple with the echoes of their past lingering in my mind like an unfinished melody. Those years of confusion, anger, and heartache have instilled a sense of resilience within me. I still wonder how to carry the weight of their wounds as I step into the real world. I seek answers that often feel unattainable. How do I reconcile the love I had for both parents with the hurt they have caused each other? How do I break free from the patterns I’ve observed, turning them into lessons rather than burdens? Ultimately, I had to recognize that healing is not simply about forgetting the past; it’s about understanding it, bearing witness to it, and using it to shape a future brimming with hope and possibility. With time, I can shed the timidity that once enveloped my childhood and embrace the strength I’ve cultivated through adversity. I am not defined by my parents’ choices, but rather, I am empowered to write my own story—one that embraces unconditional love, patience, and a commitment to creating a life where peace, not conflict, reigns.