When my parents divorced, I didn’t cry. No tantrums, no begging. It felt like a weight lifted. They were strangers under one roof, pretending to be a family no one believed in. Peace came not from love—but from the silence ending. I had known for a long time that this wasn’t how love was supposed to feel.
The silence in our house was loud. No fights, but no love either. Dinner was mechanical, cold, forgettable. They spoke like neighbors, not partners. Two shadows passing in the same hallway, living separate lives in one broken space. When they said it was over, I already knew it had been for years.