Just Forget It

“Just forget it, Emily!” Mom’s voice cracked like the branches outside, brittle in the winter wind. She slammed the kitchen drawer so hard, the silverware inside rattled in protest. I stood in the doorway, backpack still slung over one shoulder, my shoes leaving wet prints on the tile.

“I can’t just forget, Mom. How am I supposed to?” My throat burned, but not from the cold I’d just escaped—the Chicago winter had nothing on the chill in this kitchen. My breath fogged in the air. Or was that just in my mind, the way my body clung to the freezing walk home?

Outside, the wind howled, shaking loose the last brittle leaves from the maple out front. Inside, we were just as raw, stripped down to nerves and old wounds. I wanted to peel off my soggy scarf, to let the warmth of home thaw me, but the tension in the room made me hesitate.

Mom turned away, her hands trembling as she filled the kettle. “Some things are better left alone, Em. Let’s just move on.”

Move on. Like it was as easy as walking through the front door and pretending everything was fine. Like Dad’s absence wasn’t a gaping hole in the middle of our house, right where the family photos used to hang. I glanced at the empty nail on the wall, the faint square where the sun hadn’t faded the paint. The silence stretched between us, taut as the clothesline out back in winter—just waiting to snap.

I dropped my backpack by the heater and collapsed onto the couch, clutching a pillow to my chest. My fingers were numb, but it was my chest that felt frozen. Mom’s footsteps padded softly into the living room, and she pressed a mug of lemon tea into my hands. The steam curled around my face, offering a small, fragile comfort.

“Emily,” she said, settling beside me, “I know you miss him.” Her voice was softer now, edged with exhaustion. “But your father made his choice.”

“Did he?” I shot back before I could stop myself. “Or did you make it for him?”

Her jaw worked, and for a moment, she looked like she might cry. But she just stared at her hands, twisting her wedding band. “It doesn’t matter anymore. We have to keep going.”

There was so much I wanted to say. That it did matter. That every morning when I woke up, I waited for the sound of Dad’s laugh echoing from the kitchen, for the smell of his burnt toast. That every night, I watched Mom pour herself a glass of wine and stare out the window, hoping the headlights in the driveway were his. But I said nothing. Instead, I pressed my lips to the tea, letting the scalding liquid burn away the words I couldn’t voice.

That night, I lay in bed listening to the wind rattle my window, feeling the ache of things unsaid. My phone buzzed—a text from Dad.

“Hey, kiddo. How’s school? Miss you.”

I stared at the screen, thumbs hovering, heart pounding. Should I tell him about the fight? About Mom’s tears, about the way everything felt broken?

Instead, I typed, “Fine. Miss you too.”

The next day at school, my best friend Sarah cornered me by my locker. “You coming to the party Friday? My mom said you could stay over.”

I shrugged. “Maybe. My mom might need me at home.”

Sarah’s face softened. “It’s not your job to fix things, Em. You know that, right?”

But wasn’t it? Since Dad left, it felt like every responsibility landed on my shoulders—from making dinner to walking the dog, to making sure Mom didn’t fall apart completely. I watched other kids laugh in the hallways, their lives untouched by storms. I envied their lightness, their oblivion.

Friday night came. The house was quiet, the kind of quiet that makes you want to scream just to prove you’re still alive. Mom was grading papers at the dining table, red pen flicking across the page. I hovered by the door, coat in hand. “Sarah invited me to her party. Is it okay if I go?”

She looked up, her eyes tired. “Of course. You should have fun.”

I hesitated. “Will you be okay?”

She tried to smile. “I’ll be fine, Em. Go.”

But halfway down the block, I turned back. The thought of Mom alone in the house, sipping wine and staring out the window, was too much. I stood outside, watching her silhouette framed by the lamp, and wondered when we’d both started living like ghosts.

That weekend, Dad called. His voice sounded distant, hollow, like it was coming from underwater. “Em, I know things are rough. But you and your mom—you’re strong. You’ll get through this.”

“Will we?” I wanted to believe him. But I heard the tremor in his voice, the uncertainty he tried to hide.

After we hung up, I found Mom in the kitchen, sorting through a box of old photos. She handed me one—me, Dad, and her at the beach, sunburned and smiling. For a second, I let myself remember what it felt like to belong to a whole family.

“Do you ever wish things were different?” I asked.

She didn’t answer right away. “Sometimes. But wishing doesn’t change what happened.”

I nodded, tucking the photo into my pocket. Maybe forgiveness isn’t about forgetting. Maybe it’s about learning to live with the cold, and finding warmth where you can. Even if it’s just in a cup of tea on a winter afternoon.

So I ask you—how do you let go when the past won’t stop haunting you? And is there ever really a way to just forget?