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he tells me its unnerving sleeping without my mother. she doesn't even call. or rather, she did, but it wasn't to ask how my father was doing, it was to remind him to pay the satellite bill, a task she forgot before leaving two thousand kilometers. he mows the lawn while she's gone, an attempt to take care of things he can still attend to. he asks me to send a photo of his work to her, proudly. she's complained before that i wait on him too much—he's capable—pouring his coffee when i need to take care of a tangible need, when i just want him to know how loved he is. they needed distance from the prison of their circumstances; my father, trapped in his reliance on his wife; my mother, bound by duty to care for a husband whose mental health is failing. the resentments continue through the crackle of poor connections. i go to my room that is no longer my room and cry, and i'm a girl of eight again, overhearing in secret my parents speak of their problems, their hurts, throwing around the word divorce as a way to end the stalemate.
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