For a long time, I pretended it wasn’t a big deal. I pretended it wasn’t a trauma. I pretended it wasn’t my first abandonment—abandonment of self, of a life I thought I had, of an existence that was probably far too comfortable.

My parents divorced when I was five-years-old. I remember the evening they sat my older brother and I down at the kitchen table like it happened yesterday. My parents had tears in their eyes as they quietly said they were getting a divorce. I, of course, didn’t know what this meant, but I could tell it was something I didn’t want. As tears swelled in my eyes, my eight-year-old brother said to me, “It’s okay. We’ll be okay,” as if he was already putting on the “man of the house” costume. I ran to the garage door and shouted, “Nobody is leaving!” I ran to the front door and shouted it again. I slumped down in front of the door, and cried. The following hour, day, month after this is a blur.