Mom and Dad walk ahead of me, their hands linked, holding on so tightly to each other that their knuckles are turning white.

It’s rare to see them this close lately. They’ve been fighting a lot.

Not just the heated discussions I used to hear coming from their room when I had to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night.

No, they’re fighting right in front of me now, like they can’t stand to hold it in even for a few minutes longer. Really, it only takes a few steps to take the argument into their bedroom, but they don’t even bother with that anymore.  

They fight in the kitchen while I have breakfast before going to school; they fight as soon as they get home from work; they fight in the living room while I do my homework upstairs. I have to wear headphones to concentrate on anything.

I put my hand inside the pocket of my coat to play with my iPod, running my thumb over the smooth surface of the scroll wheel. I leave it off, though.

I choose to listen to my parents talking in normal voices to each other. Each night, I find myself raising the volume of the iPod to drown out my parents’ voices. This is a nice change of pace.

Besides, the speakers inside the mall are playing Coldplay’s Viva La Vida, which I’ve been playing on repeat. The music sounds different when Chris Martin isn’t practically screaming in my ears. It’s better.

All around us are other families. Parents and children. Couples on dates.

We probably look just like them, but we’re different.

While they stroll leisurely, we’re marching with purpose. While they chat casually with one another, I’m silently watching my parents speak in hushed, tense tones. While they browse the stores for things to purchase, we’ve only paid attention to one store in particular.

Toy Kingdom.

It’s heaven for most children, with their endless shelves stacked high with all kinds of colorful plastic things.

It’s hell for us, though. We can trace all our problems to that store. When Toy Kingdom first opened, that was the beginning of our downfall. It changed everything almost overnight.

There used to be kids running all over my parents’ store all the time. I had to watch my step so I wouldn’t run into them, or let them run into me. But now, I can close my eyes to navigate the store.

The shelves used to be packed so tightly with too many boxes that I sometimes had no idea how to fit everything. But now there’s plenty of empty spaces between the toys.

Also, I hardly get to paste the “New!” stickers on the shelves anymore, because my parents can’t afford to broaden the range of their inventory anymore, now that the store isn’t making enough money.

Judging from what my parents say during their arguments, they can barely afford to pay our bills, much less stock the store with new, shiny, expensive toys.

My parents stop talking as we walk past the window display of Toy Kingdom, filled with Barbie dolls in pink boxes, a big, life-sized dog made of Lego bricks, and Peppa Pig doll houses. Bright light spills out of the store, along with the screams and laughter of kids. The store is so big it takes us forever to reach the other side.

Past Toy Kingdom, there’s an innocuous door that leads to a narrow hallway. We wait here for an elevator that takes us up to another hallway that looks identical to the one downstairs, except for what’s waiting for us behind the door.

Mom and Dad share a look before they push the door open and walk through the doorway together. There’s a big wooden counter right in front of us. And behind it, about ten desks where people sit in front of their computers.

My parents are still holding hands as they reach the counter, where they’re greeted by a pretty brunette in her twenties.

“Good afternoon, how can I help you?” she asks chirpily.

“We have an appointment with Ethan Hunter,” Dad says.

“Right. Please give me a second.” She holds a pencil in her hand and drags it down the page of a big book in front of her. She stops halfway down the page and looks up. Giving my parents a friendly smile, she asks, “The Joneses, right?”

“Yes,” Mom answers, a little too quickly, revealing her nervousness.

Mom looks exhausted—I don't usually notice when we're at home. But here, when she's standing right in front of a woman who obviously takes good care of herself, I see it.

Mom wears make-up today, and a nice, color-coordinated pantsuit. But the redness in her eyes, the bags underneath, and the dullness of her hair show the cracks not just in her appearance, but also in her psyche.

“Please follow me,” the receptionist says. She leads us across the office until we reach some couches grouped around a coffee table. “Please wait here. I’ll check if Mr. Hunter is able to see you now.”

The brunette knocks on a door. I hear a faint voice from inside, deep and authoritative. She turns on her heels, her floral skirt swishing gracefully as she does, and invites us to go in.

“Wait here, sweetie,” Mom says as I get up to follow them.

“But, Mom, I—”

“Listen to me just this once. Please,” Mom says impatiently as she walks away, only briefly glancing my way as she does. She and Dad disappear into the enclosed office that belongs to the guy called Mr. Hunter, who I can assume is the one in charge of the whole mall.

I sit back down, feeling guilty for bothering my mom when she's obviously distraught. At the same time, I hate being treated like a child. I'm already thirteen, damn it.

I put on some music on my iPod and look around. Dull grey carpet, plywood desks, fluorescent lighting—this part of the mall looks nowhere close to how nice and shiny everything is downstairs, where the shops are.

As I absent-mindedly rub my iPod and pass it from one hand to another, guilt burrows itself deep within me, constricting my lungs. My parents bought the music player for me back before this mall opened, back before there was a Toy Kingdom in our neighborhood, back before we ever had any money problems.

Sometimes, despite its small size and light weight compared to my old portable CD player, the iPod feels heavy in my pocket. Guilt adds a lot of weight to it.

It feels like forever until my parents finally emerge from the door in front of me. I turn off the music as soon as the door opens, and realize I would've been able to hear the tail end of their secret adult conversation had I not played any songs. They are speaking at pretty loud volumes now.

“Please!” Mom says, desperation in her voice. “You have to give us a chance. We have no idea what we're going to do without our store.”

“I’m sorry,” says a man with the same deep voice who told the receptionist to let them in earlier.

He doesn't sound very apologetic; if anything, he seems rushed. He’s barely focusing on my parents anymore. Instead, he’s looking past both of them, his gaze flicking around like he's looking for someone.

“Please,” Mom repeats, even as she backs out of the office, her palms together like she’s saying a prayer to her new, human god. She’s no longer holding Dad’s hand.

“We shouldn't even have had this meeting,” the man-god says.

“But Mr. Hunter, like we said, we’ll make sure it will meet your requirements.” Dad tries to wedge himself in the door, even as Mr. Hunter’s hand on his shoulder clearly indicates that he wants my parents out of his office.

“Again, it's not personal. I just don't see how I could help you. I’m sorry. I hope you’ll find a way out of your problems.” Mr. Hunter raises his eyebrows at someone behind my parents’ backs. I follow his gaze and find a burly man wearing the mall security uniform rushing toward the office doorway where the commotion is.

Oh, no. This is not going to go well.

I sling my schoolbag over my shoulder and get up, compelled by adrenaline. But what do I do now? What can I do?

Dad snaps his head around when the security guard touches his shoulder, alarm etched in his face. His eyes are wild and his mouth is open. His expression reminds me of a baby raccoon we once cornered in our backyard.

“Please follow me, Sir, Ma’am,” the guard says, his face stern and his voice demanding. He’s not just another mall worker putting on his fake customer-service smile. This guy’s job is to be aggressive.

And my parents know it, too. They can’t bargain or argue with this guy. They’ve lost the battle. No—worse than that, they’ve lost the war.

Again, I follow behind my parents. This time, though, there’s a security guard trailing us, making sure we leave the premises.

Also, my parents are no longer holding hands. They’re not talking either. We’re just looking ahead, not meeting the eyes of the office workers but fully aware they’re staring at us regardless.

As we walk past the receptionist’s counter, she catches me gazing at her and pretends to look down at her book of appointments. I wonder why someone so pretty, someone who looks so much like an angel, could stand to work for the devil and ignore his misdeeds.

The security guard insists on “escorting” us down the elevator and out of the mall. I hold my precious iPod in my pocket as we walk across the parking lot, disappointed and ashamed.

I have no idea what actually happened inside that office, but I know it wasn’t good. I know we’re in even deeper trouble than we already were.

Once we’re all seated inside the car and all the doors are closed, Mom sobs into her palms. Dad just sits there with his hands on the steering wheel, staring into the distance, not even bothering to turn on the ignition.

“Mom, Dad,” I say softly as I lean forward and pop my head between the two front seats. “I can sell my iPod on Craigslist and get a part-time job.”

“No!” Mom cries out, her voice shaking. “You’re a child. Be a child.”

“But Mom—”

“I said no,” she repeats. Despite the obvious tremor in her voice, her words are firm. “I may not be able to get that…man to listen to me. But my own daughter will listen to me.”

I lean back in my seat and keep my mouth shut. We sit there, the silence only occasionally broken when Mom catches her breath in between her quiet weeping.

The air, already somber from the mood, gets more and more suffocating as the oxygen gets replaced by the carbon dioxide we breathe out.

Finally, Dad turns on the engine. As we drive home, the air gradually gets lighter, but the atmosphere remains grave.

We bring that same mood into the house, where it remains, hanging in the air. It feels like that one summer when there was a dead rat slowly decomposing in the vent, spreading the smell of death throughout our living space.

Too bad we can’t just call someone to get rid of this dark, heavy atmosphere.