But I had failed my mother; and my father at the exact same time.

The lonesome teardrop that hit my forearm scared me.  Not only because it was damp and unexpected but because of all of my nine years I had never seen my father cry.  I looked into his eyes at a glance but knew I couldn't bear the thought of anything at that time to look for longer.  He began to silently weep.  It was one of those long drawn sobs where one cannot catch their breath.  At the tender age of nine, I knew that my father's heart had been broken; shredded with unintentional carelessness.

As I observed the man that I had always known as father, the man I loved and respected more than anyone in the world, I began to become angry with my mother.  If she loved him as much as she claimed why had she just not told him the truth?  I was afraid.  Afraid of what was going to happen between my father and my mother, my father and me, and my mother and me. 

I slowly slid down my father's knee, hoping he wouldn't notice.  He seized me before I hit the floor.  He began shaking me so hard that I was having a difficult time catching my breath.  A million thoughts were going through my head because my father had never been abusive.  Just as my thoughts were beginning to collect in order to figure out what I was going to do he simply dropped me to the floor beneath his feet, much like a ragdoll.  I quickly scampered to a small hole between the end table and the hide-a-bed couch.

My father made his way into he and mother's bedroom, scouring and mumbling under his breath through the hall.