When Reality Hits Harder Than Expert Mode
The glow of my laptop screen still burned behind my eyelids as I shuffled out of my bedroom. My fingers ached from hammering away at Clone Hero charts for three hours straight—a ritual I’d perfected since high school. Gaming was my escape, my way of drowning out college stress and the quiet tension that had settled over our house lately. But nothing could’ve prepared me for what I walked into that night.
The hallway light was off, but the faint murmur of voices drifted from the kitchen. Mom’s laugh—a sound I hadn’t heard in months—cut through the dark. I froze mid-yawn. Something about its pitch felt wrong. Not the warm chuckle she’d shared with Dad during their better days, but lighter. Unfamiliar.
Rounding the corner, I saw them.
Mom leaned against the counter, her hair down in a way she never wore it anymore, fingers brushing against the forearm of a man whose face I didn’t recognize. His laugh echoed hers—a private joke I wasn’t meant to hear. The half-empty wine glasses between them caught the moonlight like accusation.
My throat tightened. For a heartbeat, I felt like I’d missed a note during Through the Fire and Flames on expert mode—that stomach-dropping moment when the track keeps racing forward while you fumble to catch up. Except this wasn’t a game.
They didn’t notice me.
Back in my room, I stared at my phone, the blue light harsh against the red marks left by my guitar controller. My thumbs hovered over the keyboard. Texts to friends drafted and deleted: “You won’t believe what I just saw—” Too dramatic. “Think my mom’s seeing someone?” Too vague.
Finally, I settled on the one person who’d understand the surreal weight of it: my older sister, Maya, away at law school. Our thread was still open from her last message about internship stress.
Me (11:47 PM):
Hey. You awake?
Maya (11:49 PM):
Barely. Midterm hell. What’s up?
Me (11:50 PM):
So I just walked into the kitchen after gaming…
Me (11:50 PM):
Mom was there with some guy. Not Dad.
Three dots bounced. Stopped. Bounced again.
Maya (11:53 PM):
Define “with.”
Me (11:54 PM):
Wine. Touching. That laugh she used to do when Dad told dumb puns.
Maya (11:56 PM):
Shit.
Maya (11:56 PM):
You talk to her?
Me (11:57 PM):
Nah. They didn’t see me.
Maya (11:59 PM):
Don’t do anything tonight. Let me process this.
Maya (12:01 AM):
You okay?
I wasn’t. My chest felt like someone had replaced my ribs with the plastic buttons of my guitar controller—clicky and fragile. But how do you text that?
Me (12:03 AM):
Idk. Weirdly calm? Maybe shock.
Maya (12:05 AM):
Classic. Remember when we found Dad’s hidden cigarettes?
A weak smile tugged at my mouth. We’d been 10 and 14, creeping into his toolbox for batteries and stumbling on a crumpled Marlboro pack. For weeks, we’d debated confronting him before Mom eventually found out.
Me (12:07 AM):
This feels bigger than cigarettes.
Maya (12:09 AM):
Yeah. But same rule applies—don’t act until you’re sure.
Me (12:10 AM):
She’s my MOM, Maya. Since when does she…
Maya (12:12 AM):
Since the separation, maybe? Not defending her. Just saying—people get messy.
The separation. Three months of Dad sleeping in the guest room before moving out. “Taking space,” they’d called it. I’d assumed it was temporary—another rough patch like when Grandma died. But Mom’s smile tonight hadn’t looked temporary.
Me (12:15 AM):
What do I do?
Maya (12:17 AM):
Sleep. We’ll FaceTime tomorrow.
Me (12:18 AM):
Right. Sleep. Sure.
Maya (12:20 AM):
Love you, kiddo.
—
The next 48 hours passed in a fog. Mom acted normal—too normal. Made pancakes Saturday morning, asked about my classes. Every laugh felt like a landmine. That night, I found myself Googling things like “signs of parental infidelity” and “how to confront a parent.”
Maya’s call came Sunday evening. Her dorm wall behind her was plastered with sticky notes—color-coded for cases, probably.
“Okay,” she said, no greeting. “Options. One: We ignore it. Two: You talk to Mom. Three: We tell Dad.”
“Fourth option: I move to Mars.”
She snorted. “Noted. But seriously—what do you want here?”
I hadn’t considered that. Did I want Mom to stop seeing… whoever he was? An apology? For things to snap back to how they were before the separation?
“I want to not feel like I’m babysitting her secrets,” I finally said.
Maya nodded. “Then we start with her.”
—
Confrontation wasn’t my forte. I’d rather sightread a DragonForce song blindfolded than have emotional conversations. But Monday after dinner, I lingered at the table.
“Mom?”
“Hmm?” She didn’t look up from her phone.
“Thursday night. I saw you. With that guy.”
Her thumb froze mid-scroll. The clock over the stove ticked louder.
“Jake,” she said quietly. “His name’s Jake.”
“Are you… dating?”
A pause. “Your father and I agreed to see other people.”
My stomach dropped. “Since when?”
“Since the separation papers were filed.” She met my eyes then, and I saw it—the guilt, yes, but also a defiance I didn’t recognize. “I didn’t want you kids caught in the middle.”
“Too late.”
For the first time in years, Mom looked at me like I was an adult. “Fair. What do you need from me?”
—
The texts with Maya that night were shorter.
Me (10:22 PM):
She says they’re separated. Officially.
Maya (10:23 PM):
Legally?
Me (10:24 PM):
Filed papers. Didn’t tell us.
Maya (10:26 PM):
Classic parent logic.
Me (10:27 PM):
Still sucks.
Maya (10:29 PM):
Yep. But now you know.
Me (10:30 PM):
Wish I didn’t.
Maya (10:32 PM):
Same. But at least we’re stuck knowing together.
—
Life didn’t magically fix itself. Dad eventually confirmed the separation was permanent. Mom started leaving earlier for work—or wherever she went. But something shifted in how Maya and I communicated. Fewer memes, more check-ins. Real ones.
I still play Clone Hero most nights. The frantic strumming matches my heartbeat better than meditation apps ever could. Sometimes, though, I pause between songs and listen for voices down the hall. Old habit.
The screenshot of those midnight texts still lives in my phone. Not as evidence, but as a reminder: Growth isn’t about hitting every note perfectly. It’s learning to keep playing when the chart suddenly changes.
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