story teller vol. 3: chips


parents. domestic disturbance. children. effects.

Sleeping on Jackie’s couch is the only refuge I got lately. But it’s for a night here and there in the sum of maybe a week a month. Running away is not an option. I got too much at stake. I got my life. The floor lamp leaves a shadow of the chandelier on the ceiling. Unlike the candle flame, the shadow doesn’t dance with the night.

I love the smell of pancakes in the morning but Jackie refuses to buy the mix and I settle for a boiled egg. She turns the radio loud when the sequence of songs plays right after the news, traffic, and weather and sings along out of tune and with forgotten lyrics. But it makes my morning after a night of my parents arguing and screaming.

The night gets thick. In the morning the dust settles. Instead of trekking home, I make my way to school. It’s Tuesday after all. By the time the sun begins to set, my stomach turns again with options and decisions. I throw my knapsack on the floor and close the door to my room. My bed, made two days ago remains untouched, but on top of my desk, a bag of chips with a  note.

“Your mom left.” The simplicity of the note, a reminisce of my father’s writing. I let the paper fall to the floor and rip the bag open. The chips have never tasted so good as I think, for once it will be quiet.

© Jacob Greb — 2023

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3 thoughts on “story teller vol. 3: chips

  1. edythasjourney says:

    I grew up in a household where my parents always fought and I found it difficult to live in such environment and sneaking out. I completely related to that feeling of appreciating those quiet moments where parents weren’t angry at each other. I find your stories very relatable.

    Liked by 2 people

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