Forever.

That’s what love is, isn’t it? Omipresent, omipotent, omnipotent. It bubbles in the stomach acid like heat boiling water, disrupting the electrical rhythm of the heart like a form of arrythmia. It urges fingers to intertwine, lips to crash together, legs to tangle; love is a poem, creating couplets from individuals, bringing verbage into life that wasn’t there before.

Maybe not for Mom and Dad. It was like clockwork, really. Something small would come up and suddenly, one of them would burst. Some nights I wondered, listening to their arguments downstairs, why they wouldn’t just leave each other already. Maybe they really did love each other, and their way of showing it was screaming at each other until their voices gave out and Dad woke up sore from sleeping on our lumpy old couch, which would only make him even more grumpy, which would in turn set off my mom, and as such, the cycle would continue. For all the friction between the two, it seemed to me like there was no unmoveable object when it came to my parents’ marriage; only an unstoppable force.

I read in some trashy teen magazine article about dating tips that everyone had a soulmate. I supposed that included my parents. I’m not sure if Cupid had a hangover when he assigned soulmates, but really? He couldn’t be serious when he thought they’d be a good match.

It started at the dinner table. A large plate of roast ham, a casserole dish of green beans and carrots and cauliflower, and a bowl of mashed potatoes sat at the center of our Christmas Eve feast. Mom had set out the good tableware, down to the lace tablecloth that she’d woven years ago that sat white as snow beneath our plates. This time, my little brother Adrien mentioned over his plate of ham, veggies, and mashed potatoes that he wanted to open the presents after dinner. He was at that age between preschool and kindergarten where a kid is old enough to talk, but nowhere near able to understand the concept of being careful enough with his words. In this household, he’d learn, like how a deer learns to raise its head at any little sound, like how a dog learns to tremble and whine when it recognizes the path to the vet, to hold his tongue. It was so innocent, the way he said it, his big brown eyes sparkling with the lights of the dinky old Christmas tree that he stared longingly at. Dad readjusted himself in his seat. His silhouette blocked the view of that beacon of hope, and suddenly, that glint in Adrien’s eyes was gone.

Mom eyed Dad as he reached for his wine glass and took a long sip. “No. Presents are for Christmas morning,” he answered, too focused on Adrien to notice how Mom pulled the wine bottle to her end of the table, out of his reach.

“But we’re going to Grandma’s tomorrow!” Adrien protested. “We aren’t gonnna have time to open the presents.”

Dad soured immediately at the mention of Grandma Celia. She’s my maternal grandmother-- my only grandmother, really, since his mom died before I was born— and she fought tooth and nail to keep him from marrying mom. She only relented when I decided to pay a surprise visit in the next nine months. Dad always thought he was discreet with his distates, but it was always obvious with the way his brows scrunch ever-so-slightly together and how the corners of his mouth pulled downwards.

“Maybe he’s right, Daniel,” said Mom. “Christmas is supposed to be so special, and we’ll have to wake up so early tomorrow… isn’t it better if we—“

“That’s not how we do it, Mary."

“Yes, but—“

The table shakes with a loud slam. Plates and silverware clatter, and the half-empty wine glass topples over, splashing the dinner and staining the tablecloth that Mom spent so long making a deep, dark red. Dad’s hands are shaking, his palms reddening visibly from the impact on the table.

And Mom gives him _that_ look, and I know that not even Christmas could stop the impending shitstorm.

I stand abruptedly from my seat, taking Adrien’s hand. “I just remembered,” I say, “we need to go check on Grandma’s present.”

Mom and Dad are too busy staring each other down to justify me with a response, much less remember that Grandma’s present was already sitting neatly beneath the tree.

I lead Adrien up the stairs and into my room.

Love is forever. Love is holding my baby brother while he shakes and cries. Love is assuring him that everything will be okay. Love is watching funny videos on my computer, turning the volume up so that the screaming from downstairs fades into the background.

Maybe love isn’t what Mom and Dad have. It couldn’t be. Cupid’s pretty sick for making them think it was.

I heard glass breaking. I turned up the volume on my computer.

I know what love is. It’s not that.

I can only hope Cupid doesn’t make the same mistake with me, or my brother.