Dating : One Morning in 2008

I was four years old when my parents gave my sister and me the news. We were sitting in the kitchen facing the dark hallway leading to the front door. My mom stood uncomfortably on the left, my dad on the right. Sitting there, I had no idea what was about to happen. I didn’t realize how many times I’d move in the next twelve years or how long this memory would stick with me. All I knew for certain was that I was wildly craving the donuts sitting on the counter.

My parents didn’t get a dozen donuts, just two: a maple bar for my sister and a chocolate bar for me. I wasn’t allowed to eat it until after they had finished talking, but I knew it was coming.

“Your dad and I just aren’t as happy as we used to be, but we still love you two very much,” my mom told us sympathetically.

Then, finally, they handed us the donuts. Chocolate donuts rarely smell like chocolate. They just smell the same as any other donut in the shop. But these were the most memorable donuts I would ever eat. The chocolate had melted in the time that they’d been sitting on the counter, making it run all over my tiny hands. I devoured the entire chocolate bar in less than a minute and licked my fingers clean of the evidence. When my dad asked if I had any questions, I could think of only one.

“What’s going to happen on Christmas?” I asked innocently.

“I’m going to have you on Christmas Eve and you’ll see your dad on Christmas morning,” my mom responded, not giving my dad a chance to speak.

And that was it. Two parents. Two Christmases. Two houses. Two siblings. Two donuts. I sometimes wonder about what could have been if they hadn’t split. I can imagine what it would be like if I had one Christmas, one house, one family, and no donuts. But I suppose that’s just wishful thinking.