The Night-Shift

I stand there, in the living room of my childhood home staring. Just staring, because that's all I am capable of doing at the moment. My father walks out of his room. My father who goes to work at seven o'clock every morning. Who teaches my little brother how to play baseball every afternoon when he gets home from a long day at work. Who comes home to his family every night. Who proposed to my mother at her parents' house where they first met. Who isn't catholic, but married my mother in a church because he needed her in his life. Who took her on a honeymoon in Paris because it's where she dreamed to go ever since she was a child. Who quit his job temporarily because she was sick while pregnant with me. My father who had a woman spend the night at his house while my mother was working the night shift at the hospital. The woman walked out wearing nothing but my father's work shirt, and a pair of tiny shorts. She stared at me for a bit as she left, but she said nothing. My mind can't even think, I'm not even breathing properly. I finally catch a single breath, and my father walks out of his room, his eyes wide as he notices my presence.

"Wha-" he stammers before continuing, "You're still here? I thought you went to school? You saw-" He stops, and looks at me, "You saw her?"

"Yeah," I say quietly, anger tinting my voice, "I saw her. It's Saturday. There's no school on Saturday." He had to be drunk to bring some woman home when his daughter was here, thinking it was a Saturday. Fortunately for him, my little brother is spending the night at a friend's house. Tears stain his traitorous cheeks, and I am appalled as they trail and trickle down his face. He doesn't get to cry.

"Why are you crying?" I ask. I know why he's crying. I know what he's afraid of. But he doesn't get to cry.

"Are you going to tell her?" he asks through muffled sobs.

"Am I going to tell my mother that her husband of ten years had some random woman spend the night. That I saw her leave?" I'm disgusted, and after recalling these events out loud, I have to throw up. I rush into the bathroom, and he follows me, holding my hair as I empty my stomach into the toilet. I don't know if I'll tell her, but I know I don't want him touching me. I want to push him away, but all of a sudden, I remember that he's still my father. He taught me how to throw a ball better than most girls I know. He showed me how to change a tire. He was there when I was born. He's there for me whenever I need him. But more than that, he's human. He makes mistakes. It had to be a mistake. The way he is with my mother is undeniably love. I know the way he feels about her. I flush the toilet and put down the top so I can sit on it.

"I won't say anything," I whisper.

"What?" he says, wiping his tears.

"I won't say anthing," I repeat a little louder, "You're an adult. I trust that you'll handle it on your own in your own way. I'm not okay with it. But I love my mother and she doesn't deserve this. But you're my dad."

"Thank you," he says desperately. He kisses my forehead and places a hand on my cheek.

"Thank you," he says again.

I stare at him, not knowing what to do, and my heart aches for my mother. I can't think straight, and the only clear thought going through my mind is that this is what's better for both of them. I don't want them to become divorced. I don't want to lose my parents, and I don't want them to lose what they share over this.

I sit on the couch, finishing my Saturday morning cartoons. I'm a teen now, but I still love to watch them. Even my little brother, at twelve, is over them, but I can't. I love them too much. Just the way I love my stuffed animals in my room. I've never faced adult issues. I've never made an adult decision until a few minutes ago. My father sits in his chair across from me, just staring at the television. Neither of us knows what to say; how to act around each other, so we just sit, the tension of the secret that we vowed to keep between us lingering still in the air.

My mother walks through the door, and she looks so tired.

"Hi, love," she says to me, then goes to kiss my father on the cheek. A large part of me wants to say something to her, but I love the two of them far too much. My mother starts ranting about his day, and I stare in adoration as my father strokes her cheek and pulls her to his chest.

“Oh, baby,” he whispers and kisses her hair. 

She pulls away with a little laugh, “Oh, I’m just being dramatic, don’t mind me.” She puts the things from her lunchbox away, and my father watches her intently. 

I wonder if she knows. If she can smell the other woman on his skin. If she can see the betrayal in his eyes. If she can taste her on his kiss. If she can feel her through his touch. If she can hear it in his deep, rich voice. Or if she can somehow just sense it on her own. Does she know? She looks back at him with the same amount of love that he saw her with, and I can’t help but to look away. She doesn’t know now, and she never will. She never can.

So I sit in silence.