Night before yesterday, my parents had a brief spat — or a slight fight — that basically adumbrated the coda of their long inter-afflicted marriage.
Never before did I ever have such pellucid, unambiguous, unequivocal, feeling.
That it was the last straw.
That it was the point of no return.
That nothing and nobody in this world could ever salvage the impending end.
Why should I even be surprised.
— Or not.
I witnessed their years-long cold fights and participated as the only functioning message conveyer from my 5th year of life;
watched their more-than-frequent quarrels among almost anything and every choice to be made, with or without my own interference;
rent myself their first divorce paper in rage before even knowing what marriage really is;
and let go of their business in a heartrending burst of cry at the age of 15, realizing that they themselves are the subjects that make a marriage, while I am a sheer outsider to this matter; that nobody, including myself, other than themselves should ever try and interfere with their own decision of keeping or ending this marriage.
And from which stemmed my own distrust of marriage — even though I was perfectly aware that it would hardly be the same.
I let go, and I expected to hear the news.
— However, it did't happen.
Things seemed to be stabilized for the ten years ensue.
There were still fights, of course, but they were making conversations, engaging in family issues together, and laughter was even near the surface.
Everything seemed to be perfectly normal for any married couple, at least in the first glance.
It made all of us feel that whatever happened in the past had remained there.
The crisis was discharged.
We were a normal family that anyone can universally find and lived a happy life thereafter.
Ostensibly.
Did I really believe that everything's going to be just fine?
No.
Because whatever led to the previous fights still remain unchanged.
And are germinating new fights whenever possible.
They never share interests or hobbies, which is not the problem.
They don't share values with each other, which causes nearly every antithetical opinion.
The worst thing is, they — specifically my mother — denied every attempt to communicate, despite the various approaches we could think of.
And I failed to trace their love.
I've been observing the whole thing for 20 years already.
Having in mind what exactly the crucial problem is for both of them, and how, if possible, to change them and save the marriage.
But I can't.
And I shouldn't.
People don't change easily, especially people like them.
They are not made for each other.
They are not meant to be together.
Keeping the bind is more than anything a torture for both of them.
They know it. I know it.
And my beloved one is asking an out.
How can I make the same mistake again, 20 years later?
I'm letting go, again.
It's all over.
It was over long ago.
It shouldn't even get started in the first place.
I'm watching my family breaking asunder in a way perceptible to the naked eye under my very nose.
Instead of trying to make the mends tactfully, I have to suppress those doomed-to-be-unavailing efforts.
It would be better for everyone.
I know that, perfectly.
Why, then, I couldn't help mournfully grieving.
And I have no one to talk to about this.
Nobody could ever feel the same way I feel without having a full understanding of those myriads of facts elucidating the whys and hows that are not supposed to be discussed blatantly.
Our own skeleton is ought to be kept covertly within the four walls of the house.
Thereby I'm grieving alone.
And I chose to confide some of my agony in here before my chest implodes.
I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Don't make me wait too long.