My parents didn’t just divorce when I was eight—they shattered. It wasn’t quiet or mutual or something you explain gently to a child. It was loud, bitter, and full of tension that never really left.
For years, they couldn’t even be in the same room. My life became a careful balancing act—two homes, two holidays, two versions of reality. I learned what not to say, what names to avoid, and how to exist in pieces just to keep the peace.
By the time I turned eighteen, I had accepted that this was permanent. Some things, once broken, never come back together. But when I got engaged, I made a decision I had avoided my entire life.
I refused to split my world in two again. One wedding. One room.
No compromises. I told them both the same thing: if they loved me, they would find a way to be there—together. On the wedding day, they showed up.
