My parents split up three months ago, in the fall, but they said the three of us would still go to this Mexican resort for Christmas because we already had the tickets and all that. By the time Christmas rolled around my mom said no way, she’d changed her mind and my dad said okay, it’ll just be me and him going to Mexico. Then, on the day we were supposed to leave, my dad wasn’t at his place and I couldn’t reach him on his phone and I said to myself thanks guys, you’ve really pulled out all the stops this year, and I went anyway. I mean I went into my dad’s spare room and took his “rainy day” money and my ticket and all the hotel information and I called a cab to take me to the airport.
The road to the airport was an unfamiliar one. As I looked out the window, trying to ignore the guilt quietly slipping onto my conscience, I suddenly felt so tired. I was fed up with all the fighting, the conflicts, and the problems my parents seemed to make up, only because they were frustrated from their own broken dreams
My phone rang at that moment, interrupting my thoughts. The taxi driver turned to stare at me, probably wondering why I wasn’t picking up and whether I was a troubled run away, teen. The tension broke after I turned my phone to vibrate and the airport was in sight. Without looking back at the road that led me here, I walked in. Standing and waiting for the line to diminish at the check-in desk, I desperately tried to suppress that unbearable sense of regret; I had done nothing wrong. I just needed a break away from the disaster area I called home.
When it was finally my turn, I went through the usual procedures of the airline and sat down in the designated waiting area. Waiting again. I didn’t if the empty feeling could cut me any deeper than it did already, but apparently I had no idea what pain felt like. I got a text message.
Where are u, darling? Your father’s in the hospital and the doctors diagnosed him with a stomach ulcer
The tears rolled down my face. But I boarded the plane nevertheless. I was tired. I didn’t have the strength to look back. I didn’t have a justified answer for my actions. How was going to explain to them what it felt like to be in the middle of WWIII and while both of them are armed and ready, I’m fruitlessly trying to negotiate peace? I didn’t have a home to return to anyways. It was easier to just let the uncontrollable feeling of HATRED numb. I was tired and I needed to run away. Knowing my father was sick would just add to the suffocating atmosphere. It was easier to run away.
Plus, it’d be such a waste of money if they weren’t going to use the tickets.
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