Fishbowl

We were at a Waffle House, probably on the road to or from somewhere, but I don't remember. To the server, I probably looked like your average pre-teen having breakfast with her parents and younger sister. We sat two by two at a four-top by the window. The symmetry was beginning to feel familiar enough, even though I still sometimes felt like I was sinking in the hole my brother left behind when my parents sent him across the country to a boarding school for emotionally troubled teens.

We were a family broken, but we did our best to pretend otherwise as often as possible. At least I did. I didn’t like talking about it. I didn’t like thinking about what was wrong with us.

“So we want to talk to you girls about something,” my Dad said.