My parents decided to divorce less than two years ago, in fact, this weekend marks the second anniversary of the day they decided to separate on. The Sunday after Thanksgiving; It's a day no one in my family will ever forget, I'm sure. The four of us sat around the square wooden dining table, eating leftover turkey and stuffing. Mom and Dad had been arguing since we got home from church. Alex and I had spent the rest of the morning hiding upstairs with the stereos turned up to drown out the sound of Mom and Dad screaming downstairs. When they finally invited us down for dinner we were both hesitant, not knowing what awaited us, but expecting the worst. "I'm not very hungry," my ten-year-old brother said in a voice that began "Neither am I, but we'd better go over there, otherwise they'll take care of our bags next time," I replied, placing a hand on his lower half. of the back to guide him down the corridor. living in a two-story blue house with large bedrooms, a treehouse in the backyard and amazing neighbors in a small town with no crime and no pollution. Things should have been happy there. I had always gotten good grades in school, played all sports, and my little brother was adorable. Life was supposed to be perfect. When we sat down at the table it was obvious that Mom had been crying and Dad was angry, but they both managed to stay quiet through the first half of the meal. Alex and I ate as quickly as we could, knowing the fight could break out again at any moment. Soon my parents ended the silence and began arguing across the table. “Maybe we should ask Alicia how she feels about all this,” my father said and my mother agreed. I knew what was coming next. I was about to take drugs because of another fight my parents had. My role was to make the decisions, to decide which of my parents was right and which was wrong. The topic of conversation that particular Sunday was whether or not we should change churches.