Fragmented Family

We were virgins on our wedding night and she wore a silky red nightgown.

There’s a cello in my house that has a silky red covering to protect the wood of the instrument. It looks like half of a nightgown.

We were exited to see her at the airport. In the car, she was extremely quiet. Did the out of state residential treatment work? I wondered.

I sit, wrapped in a blanket, just listening to the dryer toss clothes around.

I felt such panic. The cop car lights jarred my thinking. My mom and daughter just waited in the truck. “We’re going to take her to the psychiatric hospital. Do you wanna see her?”

“I’m sorry, I can’t. I can’t come in to work today, again. I haven’t been this sick in a while.”

“I really just had my heart set on a carmel macchiato!” Liar. You had your heart set on suicide.

“Thanks for bringing her stuff. I hope you have a fun camping trip.” I think about how happy I am to soon pick her up from school.

Why would you write a suicide letter with erasable ink? Why did the handwriting change halfway through? I couldn’t stomach the inconsistencies any longer.

“Hi, sweet girl! What would you like for dinner?”

“I don’t know.” She looked away. Could she ever be fully honest with me?

We decided to eat broccoli and chicken for dinner.

Years had gone by, and the fragmented family lived on.