The "D" Word

by Tara Lazar

I can’t believe Andrew asked me what divorce meant, within earshot of his own father. Byron immediately grabbed the remote and started flipping channels, whizzing past basketball games, weather reports, and home improvement shows in an attempt to appear occupied. I saw small beads of greasy sweat start to collect on his thick, bulbous head and my stomach grew queasy. We were darn careful not to discuss anything about our imminent separation in front of Andrew, but somehow our arguments in the walk-in closet were overheard, maybe escaping through the air ducts — twisted, angry, resentful words floating through the house, coating everything in dismay like a blanket of dust. Andrew was simply eating his cookie, innocently licking the sticky vanilla filling out of his Oreo, paying as little attention to his question as Byron was. Byron and that fat head of his, blocking my view of the changing channels.


Tara Lazar writes while her children are sleeping. If you see typos or capital letters where they don't belong, it means her children wouldn't nap; instead, they decided to bang on the keyboard. You can find her not-so-anonymously here.