Laura's POV
Have you ever experienced that words can change everything? That they can cause so much misery, pain or embarrassment, even if spoken in the most casual way? I have experienced that several times in my life. You see, my mother has a habit of casually mentioning the most important of decisions over normal, unexpected events, like breakfast or while you're watching a movie with her. When I was five – and I'm simply telling you this to give you an idea of what I mean – she was taking me to kindergarten one day and bluntly told me something that has changed my life forever. And the thing is: there was a reason that I did not yet understand. Not until one week later.
"We're moving out," my mother said after she gave me a kiss on the cheek, wishing me a good day at school.
I had been stunned, had no idea what to do – whether to get out of the car and pretend like nothing happened, or firing a million questions at her, because I simply did not get it. Or maybe I didn't want to back then. I wasn't an oblivious or naive little girl – even at the early age of five, I'd already sensed something was awfully wrong between my parents. They used to yell at each other a lot, while I tried to finish eating my dinner or - when I was already in bed - I pretended everything was fine, singing happy songs to myself softly so I wouldn't hear the shouting. But when my mom explained to me that she and my dad were getting a divorce, I just snapped. I screamed, cried, begged and so on, but none of that helped. We were moving out. We left my dad, my heartbroken dad, and moved to Red Bank, a small town not too far away from him, but far enough for my mother to feel free. I remember exactly how utterly hurt and devastated dad looked when my mother packed all our stuff and dragged me into the car, driving away to a new life. Without him.
The rest of the journey and during the first weeks of being in our new home, I simply refused to talk to my mother. We didn't speak for weeks. But to my own surprise and horror, the pain of missing my father lessened over time. I talked to him a lot over the phone and even though the feeling that something was not right about not having my dad in my daily life never disappeared, I did get used to him not being around. I still got to see him during the weekend every three weeks and somehow, I was okay with that.
When I was ten - five years after my parents' horrid divorce - my mom decided to pick up an old hobby: singing. When she was a teenager, she had attended a special school to become a professional singer. But when she'd gotten me, she stopped doing concerts instantly. Later she quite the choir and ever since the fights with my dad had started, she hadn't sung a single note.
Another five years passed and life was good - my mom found herself a new choir, a vocal coach and a restaurant to perform in on Friday evenings. And I was happy too, I really was. My piano lessons were going great, and I found out that I had an interest for songwriting as well, which felt so freeing to me. The way I could and still can express what I feel or think through music is just exhilarating. Especially when performing – which I rarely do, because I have the worst case of stage fright – I feel like I can really connect with the audience, tell them my story through my songs. And I love that about music. It's so pure, so real if you do it right.
It wasn't until at my fifteenth birthday that it all went wrong. My mom and some of my friends had thrown me a surprise party, with balloons – which scare me to death – cake and even a baking workshop. Now, I already knew I loved to cook, with stemmed from the the first few years after the divorce, when my mother was so depressed she wouldn't do anything but stay in bed. So, instead of whining about the latter, I did the groceries and cooked for my mom and me. Someone needed to do it, right?
But suddenly, just before we wanted to start baking, my mother realized she didn't buy enough baking powder. So, she hurried back to the store and long story short, she got into a car accident as a man named Gerry Johnson told me over the phone later that day. He is a nice, calm man, a producer and my stepfather. Or so that's what he became about a year after the accident, which he had caused because he was not paying attention to the road for just a second. Story goes, my mom had fallen in love with him the moment she first laid eyes on him – which, awkwardly enough, was right before she fainted due to the pain of her broken arm.
Gerry is all my mom ever dreamed of in a man: someone who'll always support her and her singing career, who'll love her and be with her forever. Ever since that day, things changed again. A year passed and my mom and Gerry got married. Before long, they started traveling a lot to get my mom a record deal – a dream she apparently hadn't quite given up on. They finally succeeded two months ago with a producer in LA, after almost three years of bothering record labels.
And I know I should have seen it coming, but sadly, I hadn't. Maybe – as I've explained earlier – this isn't entirely my fault. You see, my mother has the strange and annoying habit to mention the most important things during normal events. Two days ago, she spoke life-changing words again. Words that sounded so familiar, I got sucked right into a panic attack when she muttered those words over breakfast.
"We're moving."