I never wanted to leave that house that night, and they knew it. I think I sensed the discord between my parents. The Prairie Avenue home was a safe haven, a place where I could forget the tension and unease that had become all-too-familiar in my young life.
As she walked me to the large front door, Grandmacita handed me a bag of sesame cookies and rubbed my back where I’d fallen. I munched those cookies all the way home, nestled in my father’s arms.
I looked up at him and whispered, “Daddy, I was really, really scared today. I couldn’t breathe.”
“Yes, I know,” he said. “But Uncle Al took care of you. You’re OK now, aren’t you?” I gripped his hand more tightly.
“Yes, I am,” I answered proudly. “I’m OK.”
Before I ever picked dandelions again, my mother left my father.