I’m lying here, eyes smarting and fists clenched tight. I’m staring at the ceiling, everything now knotted and on high alert. She comes in and tells me that tonight – Thursday? So that’s the weekend ruined, just in case I’d been looking forward to it. It’s only two nights. And that’s just how things have to be?
They can piss off. I’m not spending my whole life going back and forward like that and I’m not going there smiling. They just don’t get it at all, do they? I’m feeling sort of sick now, everything’s fizzing. They just lump it all on and I’ve got no say whatsoever?
I’m tense and my head aches and I feel like breaking something. It’s as if nothing’s safe. What’s going to go next? Why can’t they leave me here in my room, with my stuff, in my time. His place is half-empty, an in-between and it doesn’t feel like a home. Do they expect kids should split themselves in two? Sliced right down the middle because the adults can’t sort themselves out.
I’m not going to pretend. They think everything’s fine, like I’m taking it well, I’ve adapted, but they’ll see one day. There’s this term – broken homes. Mum went off about it once – of course it’s old-fashioned and she hates it. But it says something. Nobody seems to understand how my world feels broken. I wish I had choices, at least. I want to stay right here and that means every night, and every weekend because they’re my weekends too.