After we get home
Mom says
we need to talk.
She holds my hand in hers.
She says: “Bindi, honey,
your dad and I have
separated.”
I can hear my heart in my ears.
“Separated?” I say. “Separated? What’s
that supposed to mean?”
She rubs my hand.
She looks into my eyes.
“Bindi, you know what it means.”
I pull my hand away.
I glare at her.
“That’s not true!” I say. “Dad calls
almost every night. And you talk to him!
And his toolbox—what about that?
It’s still in the basement.
I used his screwdriver just the other day.
“And you never even had
a big fight!
I would have heard yelling.
Why are you doing this to me?”
I jump up.
I run to my room.
I scream: “It’s not true!”
Then I slam my door.
On her.
On him.
On them.