An opal fractures light and never shows just one color at a time. Was this the key to understanding this family, to understanding life?
My mother can talk to God. He responds to her with signs. Sometimes they come through crystals, sometimes through tarot cards, most times through the glowing screen of her phone. She believes God speaks fluently in symbols, that if you pay close enough attention, you can decode His intentions for you.
My birthstone is an opal. You know, that crystal with a vibrant, iridescent show of rainbow hues? My mother would give me all kinds of opal things: necklaces, keychains, rings. She would tell me that opals symbolized hope, creativity… and emotional balance. I didn’t know what emotional balance was when she first told me that, but I liked how the stone caught the light. My zodiac sign is Libra. Libras are air signs, ruled by Venus. She told me we could be self-indulgent and easily influenced. She was an Aries, a fire sign. Fire and air don’t mix, she said, usually while standing in the kitchen with her arms crossed. My mother spoke about signs the way some people spoke about diagnoses, as if personality could be predicted. When she said fire and air did not mix, I wondered if she meant the stars or us.
My parents fought often about their beliefs. So, when my parents sat me down in 8th grade, telling me they were getting divorced, I wasn’t surprised. Actually, I remember feeling something close to relief until my mom explained why. God had sent her a new lover.
He was around 20ish. He already had a girlfriend and worked at the same place my mom did. My mother was convinced he was her gift for years of suffering. The whole thing sounded like some movie plot you covered your eyes to because it made you so uncomfortable, but you just couldn’t stop listening. I remember laughing out loud at how absurd the whole situation was until I saw my dad crying.
The following months were a blur of messy emotions. I’d spend late nights up with my dad listening to music, and most importantly talking about God. He didn’t blame my mother for anything. Since it was God’s plan, he had to learn how to accept it. I felt so angry back then. I wasn’t sure when it turned from the relief of the separation to utter hatred for my mother. I’d wake up each morning to see her walk like a ghost around my house. Her phone would blast YouTube videos of influencers’ tarot card readings. It would echo around the house, “Your new love is waiting for you around the corner.” I would seethe because those signs were not for her and they were not from God.
Eventually, she moved to an apartment. My dad would never leave his room, and I’d roam my house happily. I didn’t feel this anger anymore because she was no longer in my life.
Three months later, they decided not to get divorced. My mother moved back in, and she told me it was all God’s plan. In those moments of her moving back in, I was so hateful. I couldn’t understand how she thought she could just waltz back into my life. After ruining everything in the name of God, my dad opened his arms and hugged her so tightly. I didn’t hug her. I stood there watching my parents cling to each other like survivors of something only they could name. My dad’s forgiveness felt enormous, biblical even. It scared me more than the affair ever did. She told me that, in the end, it showed her who she truly was meant to stick with. I thought maybe that was romantic.
My mother spends hours each day talking to God. Seeing signs from famous influencers on her phone who tell her how her day will go, who to trust, and who to fear. If the video says a Libra will deceive her, she wouldn’t talk to me the whole day. If it says someone she would never expect is her soulmate, she screams at my father for a real divorce. It was a different kind of feeling watching the way belief seemed to bend reality around the signs she would get from Him.
I couldn’t even make a wish on 11:11 without wondering if I was turning into her, if the need for signs had seeped into me.
This summer, in the Target parking lot, she told me that she and my dad were getting divorced, for real this time. I wasn’t surprised, but this time I wasn’t relieved. I stayed in that seat for an hour listening to her go on about men from her past resurfacing— about how God had shown her she needed more. She gestured, laughed, cried, and argued, but I wasn’t God. I wasn’t her phone telling her that no matter what happens, it will be okay. I was her daughter, and I was so angry.
When we finally got home, I asked my dad about what had happened. He cried and told me he wasn’t sure what to do anymore. I stayed up late with my dad that night.
When they finally got divorced this time, and my mom moved out, I felt a stronger type of hatefulness. My dad had given her everything, and here again the same cycle repeated. All because God is some sort of romantic that wanted my mother to get with younger men. I thought she was so insane. These weren’t signs from God but just her internalized need to be constantly desired. When she finally left I walked around my house, but I felt weird. I felt obsessive. Every corner, every surface, every trace of her lingered. I couldn’t even make a wish on 11:11 without wondering if I was turning into her, if the need for signs had seeped into me.
A month after my 17th birthday, she moved back into our house. My dad hugged her again, welcoming her back as if all the pain she caused was waved away. I frowned at the ceremony. All those nights I’d spent with my dad comforting him, telling him that she didn’t know what God wanted for us, were for nothing. The first time since 8th grade, I ran to my room and cried for hours. All the years of back and forth with my parents crumbled within me. All my years of built-up hatred for my mom fell through my eyes. I rolled over in bed and stared at a heart-shaped opal crystal my mom had gotten me when I was a kid. The vibrant, iridescent show of rainbow hues still shimmered, pretending nothing had changed. I thought about how opals fracture light, how they never show just one color at a time. Maybe that was emotional balance: not peace, but a contradiction. Loving someone and resenting them. Maybe that was romantic.
This past weekend, my closest friend and I were talking about our future weddings. She gushed about how her birthstone was an amethyst. She pulled her hair back, and she strictly demanded that her husband propose to her with it. That she wouldn’t accept anything else. I laughed at the childishness of her words. She wanted to be proposed to with an amethyst because it was defined by some adjectives that might vaguely represent her.
Until that afternoon, I thought about it deeper. It’s absurd, yes, but it’s romantic in a stubborn way. The same way my mother’s obsession with signs was. I learned that love isn’t always about understanding. Sometimes it’s about witnessing. I’ve watched my father forgive, my mother chase the signs she believed in, and myself grow in the quiet spaces between. I’ve realized that anger, resentment, hope, and forgiveness can all exist in the same house. That might be emotional balance, or it might just be life. Maybe that’s what makes life, or whatever force or god moves it, stubbornly romantic.
Header Image: “Precious opal (Delanta District, South Wello, Ethiopia) 5” by James St. John is licensed under CC BY 2.0.
The Pine Needle 