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Defining and redefining a little big word

I am the child of divorced parents, which means that I grew up with not one, but two homes.

Let me take you through a typical Sunday night at each of these homes.

Sunday nights at dad’s started with the booming sound of his voice over the intercom. “Kids. My Office.” My siblings and I would scurry downstairs and gather on the floor in front of his desk. Then, the public shaming would begin. My dad had this end of the week ritual that we called “The Box.” He would spend all week collecting misplaced items from around the house—a toy, sweatshirt, notebook, one time our pet snake- and placing them in the box. On Sunday nights, my father would dangle a each object above his head and shout out the name of the item’s owner. “Purple colored pencil. Brianna. Worn sock. Trevor.” and so on. Whoever had the smallest pile at the end of the night would be awarded with the grand prize of $1 dollar (which he always reminded us to save). When “The Box” ritual was over, we would wash up and prepare for bed. My dad would count backwards from ninety as we brushed our teeth to make sure we weren’t cutting corners.

On Sunday nights at Mom’s house, we ate spaghetti. A great fan of alliteration, mom liked to match the first letter of the contents of our dinner to the first letter of the day of the week. That meant Spaghetti Sunday. I still remember how hard she laughed the day she discovered that we could incorporate our choice of utensils into this pattern—that’s right, we used spoons and spoons only for Spaghetti Sunday. I don’t know how many of you have ever tried to eat spaghetti with a spoon before but it is very difficult and very messy but so much fun for a six-year-old. When spaghetti was over, my brother, mom, and I would put on her over-sized sunglasses and sparkly t-shirts—sometimes mom would let me wear her high heels or pink lipstick—and we would blast Elton John and dance around the house. Then, my mother and I would put on matching pajamas and curl up in her bed eating ice cream while we fell asleep to South Park reruns.

One time, my brother and I were playing hopscotch outside mom’s house when my father pulled up in his car. “Get in,” he said. I was six years old, but I knew it was mom’s weekend and I wasn’t supposed to see dad for another couple of days. Before I could get Mom’s attention, my father yanked my brother and me into the car and drove away. Mom chased us down the street screaming until her legs gave in.

This was the first of many effective kidnappings. I would fall asleep at Mom’s house in Mom’s arms and wake up alone in bed at my father’s house. That’s not a feeling that anyone can get used to. I would wake up confused and walk downstairs to the kitchen where my father would be standing with a steaming cup of coffee. “I’m so glad you’re home,” he would say. This phrase made my blood boil every time. This didn’t feel like home at all. Home was at mom’s house where we were breathing in life—where there was love and laughter and warmth. Dad’s house didn’t have any of that.

The frequency and duration of these stays at dad’s started increasing. After one particularly long visit, my father dropped me off with mom and she was wearing an eye patch. Mom must have seen the concern on my face because when she bent down to hug me she said “Brie, you won’t believe the crazy adventure I just had. I was taken by pirates!” This was the first thing she said to me that I was certain was a lie. The dented car in the driveway was a dead giveaway.

The following summer, I went to sleep-away camp and waited on the steps of my bunk for five hours on visiting day before my counselor told me that mom wasn’t coming. My dad called that night to tell me that mom had an accident. Two days later it was life support. Two days after that, she was dead.

In the years following my mother’s death, night time was the hardest. I would lay in bed crying, longing for one more night in mom’s bed, in mom’s arms, in matching pajamas. One particularly trying night, I couldn’t get to sleep. I tiptoed over to dad’s room, my face salty and wet with tears, and asked “do you ever miss her?’ He looked me right in the eyes and said ‘Brianna, go back to sleep.”

After seven years of feeling like the wrong parent had died, I was called down to my father’s office. Naturally, I was expecting “The Box,” but this time dad had something new to share.

He explained my mother’s long history with drug addiction. How she had done most of her parenting stoned. How she overdosed on her way to visit me at camp. How it had caused her death. How he feared for my life whenever I got in the car with her. How he brought me to his house while she was in rehab.

How he had spent sixteen years trying to protect me. How he loved me more than anything in the world.

When he was done, my father came out from behind his bureau and hugged me, really hugged me, for the first time I can remember. It was this moment that I realized that home is not a place—it’s a feeling—and I was starting to come home.