The Door

In your house, there is a door.

You on one side, your parents on the other.

The door only opens from their side.

You live on your side - unable to leave even if you wanted to.

You spend your life waiting - waiting for your parents to open it.

For them to hear your wails, to come inside, to ask what’s wrong.

You wait for them to tell you that everything is going to be okay.

For you to believe it.

You wait for them to ask what’s wrong, to show that they see you, that they care.

You spend your entire life waiting for your parents to come through the door.

But the door stays closed. They never come in. They never ask, they never fix it.

You spend your life thinking about what’s happening on the other side of the door?

What’s more important than their little girl?

Curled up in your tear-stained blankets, screams for help coming out silently.

Your dad is watching football. He doesn’t even know you’re waiting by the door. Would he even care if he did?

He doesn’t give it a second thought.

On the other side of the door, your mom does nothing.

Sometimes you feel her presence so strongly you can’t help but think she’s leaning up against the door too.

Telling herself she can’t open it. She doesn’t know how. It’s too late. Afraid of what she’d find. So she doesn’t open it at all.

You don’t know if she cares, but you know she’s not going to act.

She’ll paste on a smile and pretend everything’s okay - it’s the only thing she knows how to do.

You spend your life waiting for your parents to come to your door.

They never do.

You leave it unlocked just in case.