What Watching My Mother Split From My Father Taught Me
Having a ringside seat to a masterclass in winning
Their marriage was volatile from the beginning. As far back as I can remember, my father moved into and out of our home. I remember his physical presence, but not his clothes. And then I can remember when his clothes were in the closet, but he wasn’t there.
He and my mother decided to give it another go when I was nine. They’d been married for ten bumpy years. We moved into a 3-bedroom apartment on Chicago’s South Side, along with my two older brothers, my mother’s sons from her first marriage.
Our home life was often hell on earth. The day-to-day fighting, the stress, the tension that hung in the air, just waiting for another explosion that was sure to come, took its toll on all of us. It was a constant war zone, mother against father, brother against brother, father against son, and after ten years, Mama finally had enough.
I don’t remember what set it off, but I came home from my job at the artist supply store that evening and found the door open to my parent’s bedroom. I noticed immediately that the TV set was gone. I stepped inside.
In the tight little room, his suit rack, jewelry box, and change caddy were missing along with his books, toiletries, and alarm…
