Meet Me Where the Oak Tree Grows

In our house, chipped plates seemed to multiply like rabbits, each one a reminder of how tight money was. Mom clung to any plate that could still hold
a meal.
She always saved the best plate for Dad, gave me the next best, and kept the one with the most cracks for herself. As time went by, the broken plates
piled up until they all looked equally flawed. We all had the same battered plates in our hands, living lives that felt just as broken.-
Dad started asking for money more and more, his mood getting darker every time he walked through the door, his temper growing sharper. But then,
out of nowhere, he came home with a spring in his step.
He brought a roasted chicken and a new dress for Mom. She thought maybe it was a sign of better days. But Dad's next words pulled the rug out
from under her.
Holding her hand, he said, "Rosie, you know that casino downtown? There's a big shot there, loaded and well-connected. He thinks you're something
special. How about wearing this dress and having dinner with him tomorrow night?"
Mom was known as a beauty in town. Her smile froze, and she stared at Dad, searching his eyes.
"Just dinner?" she asked, needing reassurance.
Dad couldn't meet her gaze. "Rosie, please, just this once. He promised to help me out later, and then I can give you the life you deserve."
Mom sat there, shaking, too shocked to speak. She looked like she'd aged ten years in an instant. I'd never seen her look so defeated, as if hope had
slipped away.
Dad thought she wouldn't agree, and turned on her, shouting, "Aren't you the one who moans so happily in my bed? Why can't you do it for someone
else? Damn it, you're not even as good as John's wife!"
I knew John's wife; she lived on the west side of town. The kids said she slept with other men to support her husband.
Mom's tears flowed like rain, and she grabbed Dad's sleeve, pleading with him to stop. "Okay... I'll go!"
Dad sweet-talked her that night, snoring louder than ever afterward. Mom held me tight on the little bed in the storage room. She kept murmuring, "He
used to be so good to me. He will be again, right?"
I asked, "What about now?"
She turned to me, her eyes wet with tears. "He was so good to me before you came along. If only you weren’t here, maybe..."

I stayed quiet, watching her, my heart heavy with sadness. I thought nothing could hurt this much anymore.
Suddenly, she snapped out of it, realizing what she’d said. She hugged me, shaking her head, trying to explain, "Lana, that's not what I meant. That's
not what I meant."
Even as I fell asleep, she kept whispering to herself.
The next afternoon, after school, I went home to a silent house. I pushed open the bedroom door and found Mom lying there in her brand new white
dress, eyes closed on the bed she shared with Dad. Their wedding photo hung above her.
Blood trickled from her wrists, nearly all gone. A pool of half-dried blood stained the floor. Her body was cold and stiff.
Mom had taken her own life, lost in the dream she’d crafted. Dad's heart had been empty for a long time, but Mom always thought it would bloom
again in the spring. In the end, it was her own hopes that withered, leaving her body and soul to perish.