She was sitting in between the wall and the bed, back faced away from the door leaned against the foot of the mattress. Her hands were shaking as she choked on her tears, doing all she can and all she had to make sure no one heard. In between her legs was a pile of magazine shreds and in between her fingers was a magazine page, one that easily became two. Juxtaposing her emotions of frustration, sadness, and anger, were her actions as she ripped each page tenderly. Her eyes observing it rip centimeter by centimeter and her heart astonished to how easily things can be torn apart.
I've heard them bicker and yell. I don't have to see to visually understand the scene of action. However, the scene wasn't as obvious that day.
I have seen him hit and throw, but never towards her. And I guess that's when things began to switch around. I was looking at her, but seeing me. She was feeling pain, but perceiving me.
She heard me in the room and our eyes locked. Both of our eyes were filled with tears. They weren't your usual tears of pain, sadness, or joy, but tears of an understanding and a sad relief. She felt my frustration and isolation. She understood my standoff-ness towards the family and why I would always turn my shoulder every time she tried to reach out.
I felt her frustration and disconnection. I felt her weariness from gluing a broken family. I felt myself fumbling through words and her heart wanting to reach out, but not knowing how.
Yet, in that instant we knew. We felt it. 17 years of problems, resolved within minutes.
No words were exchanged.
I approached her and sat by her side. In that 17 years only one thing could have made things more bearable in that house, in that moment, I knew from the 17 years she wanted only one thing.
A hug. -'I'm there. I'm here. I know...'
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