Taryn sat cross-legged on the floor of her room, an old photo album spread open before her. The images stared back at her like ghosts of a past life—one she didn't always know how to reconcile.
Her family hadn't always been so fractured. Once, they'd been a unit, a patchwork of chaos and warmth that somehow worked.
But as time passed, the cracks in their foundation deepened, until all that was left were fragments she struggled to piece together.
Taryn could still remember the arguments that signaled the unraveling of her parents' marriage.
Her father's business had always been at the center of their disputes—a venture he had poured his heart and soul into, to the exclusion of nearly everything else. It wasn't just a career to him; it was his legacy, his way of securing their future. At least, that's what he always said.
Her mother had seen things differently. She had believed in the importance of presence, of being there for the small moments that made up a childhood.
She wanted a partner who would sit at the dinner table every night, who would cheer from the sidelines at Taryn's track meets, who would take Jia on college tours and read bedtime stories to Devon.
But her father had his own definition of love—one measured in hours spent working and the financial stability he believed it provided.
"What good is all of this," her mother had argued late one night, "if you're never here to see your children grow up?"
Her father's voice was sharp in response. "Do you think this is easy for me? Everything I do is for them. For us."
"For you," her mother had countered. "You want to build your empire, Sheng, but you're losing your family in the process."
Taryn had listened from the top of the stairs, her knees hugged to her chest as the argument raged below. Even at ten years old, she understood the weight of their words—though she didn't yet realize how deeply they would shape her future.
When the divorce finally came, it was as though the air had been sucked out of their home. Her parents had tried to keep things civil, but the tension was palpable. Their decision to separate the children had been framed as practicality, but to Taryn, it felt like abandonment.
Jia, the eldest, went with their mother. It was an arrangement that made sense on paper—Jia was the academic star, focused, self-sufficient, and in need of guidance as she prepared for university. Her mother, a staunch believer in education, saw Jia's potential and poured herself into nurturing it.
Devon, the youngest, stayed with their father. At only six years old, he became her father's shadow, accompanying him to the shop and learning the ropes of the family business.
Her father often praised Devon's curiosity and natural aptitude, calling him "a chip off the old block." In Devon, he saw a reflection of himself—a chance to pass down his legacy to someone who seemed eager to carry it.
And then there was Taryn.
Neither parent had explicitly said it, but she had felt the hesitation, the quiet indecision that hung in the air when it came to her. She wasn't a budding academic like Jia, nor a practical apprentice like Devon.
Her passion for running didn't fit neatly into either of their worlds. And so, in the end, she was sent to live with her grandparents—placed in a space that felt safe, but also distant.
Living with her grandparents was both a blessing and a reminder of what she had lost. They were kind and caring, but they couldn't fill the void left by her parents.
Her grandmother tried to soothe her insecurities with gentle words, while her grandfather offered wisdom wrapped in humor. But no matter how much they cared for her, their attention couldn't erase the ache of feeling like an afterthought.
Her parents didn't intend to neglect her—they loved her, in their own way. But their love was tangled in their own struggles. Her father, overwhelmed by his business, saw Taryn as someone who didn't fit into his carefully constructed plans for the future. Her mother, consumed by Jia's academic pursuits, couldn't see past the grades and accolades to recognize the strength Taryn found in her sport.
And so, Taryn became invisible. Jia's successes were celebrated, Devon's progress was praised, but her victories on the track were dismissed as fleeting distractions. Each medal she won, each race she conquered, felt like screaming into a void—an effort to be seen, to be valued, that was met with silence.
As Taryn flipped through the photo album, she paused on a picture of the five of them—her parents, Jia, Devon, and herself—taken at a family picnic years ago.
They were smiling, arms draped around each other, the tension between her parents still hidden beneath the surface. She stared at her younger self, wide-eyed and carefree, and felt a pang of longing for a time when the world felt whole.
She sighed and closed the album.
Living with her grandparents offered a different kind of solace, but it couldn't replace the longing she felt for her parents' attention. Her grandmother's kind words and her grandfather's steady humor were comforting, yet they were not the validation she craved.
With the trophies and medals had won recently and last years , standing on that podium with cheers erupting around her.
In every moment, she had felt unstoppable, as though she could outrun anything—even her own doubts. But now, as she sat in the dim light of her room, the medal seemed to reflect her loneliness more than her triumph.
Taryn's journey serves as a reminder of the complexities children face when their parents divorce. It underscores the importance of intentional, balanced parenting, where each child's unique needs and passions are nurtured, even amidst life's upheavals.
Divorce may have fractured Taryn's family, but her story also shows the potential for growth, resilience, and self-discovery in the face of adversity.