The new house wasn't far from Dad's  - took us less than twenty minutes - but it was different, so much different. The furniture got there before us, clunking around in the back of Grandpa's truck. They had split everything down the middle. Dad kept the loveseat and chair, but Mom took the long couch, claimed she'd need it for me and my friends. But I knew why she wanted it, it's where we all used to sit. It was stained and ripped, but it was full of memories.  We weren't going to make any new memories on the couch, or in the house for that matter, so Mom needed to hold on to what was already created.


When I packed up my boxes, their words provided the soundtrack for my work. 


"It's not your fault, honey. Sometimes Mommies and Daddies can't live together anymore, but we both still love you."


They said that a lot as we moved through the following weeks. Mom would say it at dinner, sitting closer to me than she ever used to. It was easy to close the gap without Dad sitting with us. The table was empty in the evenings. Dad spent most nights at the motel down by the pier. He said he chose it special for me, wanted to make sure we could have some time on the water together. He claimed our surfing days weren't behind us, but he said it a little too much. And I noticed that the Memorial Day weekend passed without either of them loading up for a weekend at the beach.


So I packed, and I waited. Moving day arrived the same as any other day. The sun came up, and Mom opened my curtains to let the light in. But her smile was different, and the words, well the words were the same as every day since they told me. 


"Things are going to be fine, Margie. You'll see Dad every weekend, and you'll get to spend a lot of time together."


She said it with a smile, but the skin in her forehead wrinkled, and the edges of her eyes were wet. I didn't ask why Daddy wasn't helping us move. I didn't ask her how he could stop loving her after fifteen years. I just smiled and cataloged our last moment as a family.