Everything seems the same.

The etched markings of tiny scratches are still visible in the underside of her bed’s frame, the fluffy pile of dust still shades the corners, her back still aches from folding herself into the cramped space and the furious and bitter voices of her parents still echo through the floorboards and reverberate under her skin, but something about this time is different. It could be the syllables she has caught in the air, whistling packed bags and abandonment and ends. Or it could be the edge in their words that seems to be missing, like they don’t have anything to fight for anymore.

Pam traces patterns in the wood as their footsteps below patter towards to door. Even at seven she knows her parents have problems; her mom makes no qualms about the fact that she could’ve had better, a better life and better home, a better man, and her dad mostly just sits and stares, his voice never raising until moments like these where it all comes together like ingredients in a chemical equation and explodes. Their voices dip lower now, as if they’re arguing with their situation more than each other. But Pam presses her ear to the wood floor because it’s better to know than to wonder, and can tell in her dad’s watery voice that he’s crying. Pam lets a tear slip between the cracks and rest there undisturbed, a reminder for another day when she’d have to remember this moment.

The two distinct tremors of their voices separate, as her mother moves toward the living room and her father is nearly at the door. She waits for the soft thump of the suitcase to hit the floor and I’m sorrys or please stays. They never come.

The front door slams shut and Pam wants to cry out for him, to tell him all the reasons he should stay, for her, for her mom, for the pictures in his wallet that tell him that they’re happy. Because even though they’d traded poison words and whispered ‘I hate you’ like there had never been anything more true, there were moments when her mom smiled over Pam’s head at her dad and both their hands landed softly on her shoulders that she knew everything could be okay if they just let it.

She slips out from under her bed and tiptoes to her door, reaching for the handle and checking to make sure it won’t burn her. Light floods into her eyes and she blinks against the contrast, placing each foot with purpose as she nears the top of the stairs. Pam can see the outline of her mother at the bottom, her back turned towards her and her shoulders hunched like she’s trying to curl into herself. A board under Pam’s toes squeak and her mom glances up, her eyes bordering red and her face a chaotic clutter of conflicting emotions. But the one Pam will remember later in life, the one that will guide her like physical force, is regret. Pam knows that her mother is remorseful because she just has to be. She doesn’t understand how she could let a piece of herself simply walk out the door, because they may have had problems but all the moments where she felt whole had to add up into an answer that spelled stay.

It’s at that moment, with the banister clutched tightly in her tiny fingers and her mommy sitting broken at the foot of the stairs that Pam makes a deal with herself.

“When I grow up”, the tiny naive voice promises, “I’ll never let go of a good thing, no matter what.”