After my father left, family dinners became Salisbury steak and accompanying mashed potatoes, cooked-in-the-aluminum-tray-provided and eaten in front of the TV. 

We missed his cooking, but at least we no longer heard his nightly curses from the kitchen, when he’d invariably hit his head on the same corner cabinet (How does someone do that every. single. day?) 

Other background sounds changed too: fights for his attention that had lead to smacks across the cheek were replaced by piano appegios, Chopin, and Beethoven, our mother practicing incessantly, her senior recital upcoming in the spring.

As we gave up on being parented, my sisters turned on one another, clawing and scratching each other through adolescence. I turned to kind neighbors and our bedraggled Collie dog for nurturing and guidance. 

Despite our Jewish heritage, our mother thought that December to bring home a Christmas tree. She pulled it out from it’s cardboard box and set it up to its full 3’ height. She wrapped it with colorful lights and tinsel strands in the living room, paradoxically named as none of us kids was allowed in there due to the white sofa. It remained the least “lived in” room in the house. 

She admonished us, “Do not tell Grandma about the tree.” Of course I did. It was so beautiful.

I don’t know if we’d have been a bit less tilted had they stayed together. Not even the best intentions can straighten what has begun to go sideways.