Framed Moments and Silent Lessons

Megan picked up the album resting on the shelf.

Her parents looked happy in their wedding photos.

When did it all go wrong? she wondered. How could two people who had once seemed so in love turn against each other?

She was about ten years old when her parents began expressing their displeasure openly, no longer bothering to hide their arguments.

By the time she was a teenager, they had legally separated. Megan now spends one half of the week with her mom and the other half with her dad.

At first, she felt terrible. Her home, her life, was split in two—two parts of the week, two different spaces. She felt more like a nomad, constantly dividing her life to fit into theirs.

Then, she realized it was easier to adjust to the two-home situation than to constantly endure the tension between them.

After all, from a distance, she could still sense a form of care between her parents. Being apart had made them respect each other more than they ever did while living together.

Maybe love didn’t always mean staying together.

Maybe sometimes love meant knowing when to let go—for everyone’s sake.

Her parents might no longer share the kind of love captured in those photos, but in their own way, they had given her something just as lasting: stability, care, and peace.

And maybe that ending was a fairy tale in its own right.

She closed the album with a smile.

This piece is written in response to the two hundredth and fifty-ninth edition of Fiction Monday inspired by the word prompt – ALBUM hosted by yours truly. Do join in if you have a tale to tell.