Dear

You leave the building late at night—there's another row going on at home. Mom's screaming, Dad's screaming. You even forgot your gloves, just rushed out into the cold.

You sit down on a bench near the playground. A man in a shabby jacket stands next to you, silent and not asking any questions. He just says, "It's cold."

You think about how tomorrow they'll ask again: "Who will you stay with?" To choose one is to betray the other. To remain silent is to betray both.

A man rolls a cigarette without lighting it. He asks, "Why are you alone?"

And you break through. You say, looking into the snow:

"Every day they ask me, 'Who do you want to stay with?' But I keep quiet, I'm just a little girl, I don't want to lose anyone. They ask who I want to be with—mom or dad. Every damn day they talk about divorce."

He's silent. Then he says he was twelve when his parents dragged him through the courts. And that he told them then: "I want you both to shut up."

"They still got divorced. But it's shittier when the kid has to choose the winner. You don't owe anyone anything."

He leaves. And you stay, breathing in the snow and for the first time in a long time not feeling like you're dissolving.