For months, all you have done is fight.
You yell.
Throw things.
Finally you tell me.

Divorce.

The one thing all kids are scared of.
The separation.
The uprooting.
The custody battles.
The new life. Separate from the old.

But you sit me down. Tell me it’s not my fault. That you just grew apart. This was inevitable.

But that isn’t true.
You were happy. Smiling. Loving.

Until me.

I came along. I kept you up at night. Screaming. Demanding for a new diaper, or a bottle.
You lost your together time. It all became about me, the new baby.

Then there were the new clothes. You both had to work during the day, sending me to daycare. Just to pay for all the expense.

Then came the science projects, the all night homework sessions.
The boys.
The fights.
The drama of being a teenager.

Soon, it stopped being about nurturing your breaking marriage, and became about nurturing me. You both thought I was breaking.

But I was fine. I was living a perfectly normal, maybe even happy, life.

Until now.

Now my life IS broken.
You hate each other. You fight over me. One loves me more than the other. So one deserve me more.

Now I see what I am to you. An object. A thing.
The thing that came between you. Broke you up.

So maybe, just maybe, this IS my fault.