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Behind the Kitchen Door

By , Needham, MA

Shouting voices pierced the air as I walked into my best friend Bridget’s house. Her parents were arguing, once again, but Bridget was grinning like always.
         

“Don't you get worried when they fight like that?” I asked her.
          

“Worried about what?” She replied, her eyebrows turned down.
          

“I don't know…” I mumbled, as we walked upstairs.
     

A few moments later, I came back downstairs to use the bathroom, and heard voices drifting towards me from the kitchen.
          

“Maybe you're right,” I heard Bridget’s mom, Mrs. Miller, say with a tired tone. Right about what? I wondered as I walked closer to the kitchen door.
          

“I just don't feel like this is working,”
         

  “What about the kids? I just don't know if they can handle not having both of us always there with them,” Why would they not always be here? I thought to myself, and my mouth dropped open as I realized what this meant. Could they be getting divorced? I thought as I stood, panicked, listening to the quiet voices of Bridget’s parents. Bridget needed to know if they were. But none of this was my business, even though the Millers might've sometimes felt like family to me. I felt like a tiny debate was going on in my head, one side screaming at me to tell Bridget, the other that this was their problem, not mine.
          

I couldn't imagine how Bridget would handle the news of what felt to her like their family falling apart. But her finding out I had already known was even worse. My heart began to thump faster, and my hands felt clammy. My head felt like it was full of cotton, as the images of my crying best friend flashed through my head.
          

This was not my business, but Bridget had to know, and not from me. I took a deep breath and pushed open the kitchen door, leaving it swinging behind me as I stood, blinded by the lights, staring into the surprised faces of Bridget's parents.
          

“I have to talk to you,” I said.




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