Impact of Parent's Conflict
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He skipped school again. It made him feel nervous and lost. He couldn’t face his classmates’ sneers and filthy remarks at his parent’s divorce. He didn’t like the untoward comments, nor did he like to answer them back. He preferred the silence of his room, the closed doors that muffled the noise in the other room. His parents were quarreling, yet again. In his 14 years of life, he has never felt this insecure. He knows life will be greatly impacted by it. Nothing will be the same. His days won’t be as they were. His homely routine won’t be as it used to be.
He prefers calm and quiet surroundings. Uncertain circumstances scare him. He is mature enough to understand the problems in his parent’s relationship. He is grown up beyond his age to empathize with the either of them without judging. He loves them both, dearly, but would soon have to choose sides. He doesn’t want to choose one of them. It is sad that he is not of age yet, and custody is an issue. That makes him more nervous. No, he feels terrified. Never has he felt so lonely, so melancholic and so psychologically down. Growing up, he decides, he would never marry.
One day his father gave him a bear hug, a fatherly embrace. He could feel the turmoil again. Perhaps his father was afraid he won’t be able to hug him every day anymore. It was a day prior to the court proceedings. His mother passed him sympathetic glances every now and then. She also prepared him his favorite dishes more often than not. Perhaps she was afraid she won’t be able to cook for him as often anymore. Or was it their way of emotionally tempting him to choose them? He didn’t want to make such a choice.
Sometimes in the solitude of his room he wished he had a sibling- someone to share this trauma with. A true friend would do too, but life hadn’t been that kind to him, yet. The impact his parent’s divorce had on his life was tragic. He lost something irreplaceable. He chose his mother to live with. He was allowed to visit his father twice in a month. Well, it was the other way round. The difference didn’t matter to him. His life had been irreversibly altered.
With time he became a bit spiteful. His calm, innocent self was lost, beyond repair. He wasn’t himself anymore. Relatives assured his mother that it was a part of growing up. They blamed the hormones. The teens his age sometimes resort to rebel, they said, nonchalantly, putting the topic aside altogether. His father tried to rein him and put some discipline in him through football practices, but he just wouldn’t yield. And finally, one day he opted for higher studies away from home, leaving his mother, father, all the traumatic memories, and helplessness behind.
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