The sky was full of smoke. Lighters flickered at the end of the driveway, and adolescents let out a whoop and sprinted off, the universal signal that more explosions were on the way. “We’ll go to couples’ counseling,” I whispered, “this will all work out.” You smiled down at me for a second, then put your arm around my shoulder the way I hated, pulling me into an awkward, possessive hug, the kind that defined me as the little woman, the lesser half. I took a deep breath, an even deeper swig of beer. Your family gathered around me. They were my family then. I loved them as much as I loved fireworks – the bright colors; the cacophony of laughter; the genuine smiles, the kind that dazzle you into a chain reaction. Fire lit the sky. It was too hard to talk, so I just gave up and settled in.
In response to today’s Daily Post prompt, Autonomy.
Compass & Quill 
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