Broken Doors
Daily Inspiration
The boy stood by the fence, hands in his coat pockets, watching the wind run through the grass. It was the end of October, and the sky was heavy with gray. The leaves had fallen early that year, and the old oak tree near the mailbox was bare already.
His name was Luke. He was twelve. Small for his age but wiry, with a face that had learned how to hold back tears. Not because it didn’t want to cry, but because it didn’t know what good crying would do anymore.
The school bus pulled away in a cloud of exhaust. He waited until it was out of sight before walking up the gravel drive. His shoes were too thin for the cold, but he didn’t say anything about it.
Inside, the house was quiet. Too quiet. It used to be different. There used to be a dog. There used to be a father in the chair by the fire. A mother humming in the kitchen. Now it was just echoes. His mother’s car wasn’t in the driveway. She worked late. Or maybe not. Luke never knew anymore.
He dropped his backpack at the foot of the stairs and went to the kitchen. There was a note on the fridge. “Working late. Dinner money on the counter. Love you.” The “Love you” was always there. But it felt like something copied from memory now. Like signing your name on a card you didn’t choose.
Luke opened the fridge. An apple. Half a jug of milk. Some pasta in a container. He took the apple, sat on the back step, and watched the wind move the empty swing in the yard.
Across the field, where the trees leaned over the fence line, there had been a treehouse once. He and his dad built it one summer. The roof leaked and the nails stuck out, but it held together, and that was enough. They used to bring sandwiches and pretend they were out at sea. His dad would let him steer the ship. Luke always aimed it toward the sun.
That was before.
Before the nights of shouting behind closed doors. Before the crash of a glass on tile. Before his dad moved into the apartment near the tracks, where the water smelled like rust and the couch was also a bed.
The first time Luke went there, his father said, “It’s not much, kid, but it’s ours.” Luke had nodded and said nothing. He knew it wasn’t his. Not really. It was a place he visited, like a dentist’s office or the school counselor’s room.
He didn’t talk much anymore. The counselor asked him why.
He shrugged.
“How are you feeling, Luke?”
“I’m fine.”
“Are you sad?”
“No.”
“Are you angry?”
He had looked at the clock then. Watched the second hand sweep in clean circles. “No,” he said.
But he was.
He was angry at the way everything broke without warning. Angry that his dad had to ask a judge to see him. Angry that his mom cried in the car and pretended she didn’t. Angry that no one said they were sorry. Not really.
Luke didn’t say those things. He just kicked rocks on the walk home. Wrote answers short and small on his homework. Listened to the boys in class talk about Christmas plans and nodded when they asked what he was doing for the holidays, though he didn’t know. No one had told him yet.
Once, last winter, when it got real bad, his dad had said, “Don’t let it harden you, Luke. Don’t let this thing turn you to stone.”
Luke didn’t understand that then. He thought maybe stone would be better. Stone didn’t cry. Stone didn’t wait for people to come home and wonder if they would.
But now, he wasn’t sure.
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One Friday, after school, he walked to the field instead of home. The sun was low and gold, and the wind had eased. He climbed the fence, walked through the brush, and came to the treehouse. It was still there. Sagging, but there.
He climbed up, careful with the boards. Inside, it smelled like old wood and time. He sat on the floor, legs crossed, and stared out through the crooked window.
He pulled a picture from his coat pocket. It was wrinkled from being folded too many times. Him, his mom, and his dad at the beach. They were all laughing. His dad had just been hit by a wave and his hair was plastered sideways. His mom had sand on her knees. Luke was in the middle, arms stretched like wings.
He didn’t remember the joke. Just the feeling.
That was the hardest part. The forgetting.
He folded the picture again and put it away. The sun dipped lower, shadows growing long. He stayed there, silent, until it was almost dark.
When he came home, the lights were on. His mother was in the kitchen, still in her scrubs, her hair tied up. She looked tired. She always looked tired.
“You okay?” she asked.
He nodded.
“Eat something,” she said. “I made soup.”
He sat at the table. The soup was too hot, so he waited.
She sat across from him. “I saw your shoes. They’re looking rough.”
“They’re fine.”
“Maybe we can get you new ones this weekend.”
“Okay.”
They ate in silence for a while. Then she said, “Your dad called.”
He looked up.
“He asked if you’d like to spend Thanksgiving with him.”
He didn’t answer right away. “Is that okay with you?”
She nodded. “It’s your choice.”
He didn’t say anything. Just stared into his soup. The steam rose and disappeared into the air.
At school the next week, they read a story about a dog that got lost and walked a hundred miles to find its boy. The teacher said it was a story about loyalty.
Luke thought it was about something else. About the space between losing and finding. About what it meant to keep walking even when you didn’t know if someone still wanted you at the end of the road.
Thanksgiving came with frost. His mom drove him to the apartment. They didn’t talk much on the way. She asked if he packed his toothbrush. He said yes. At the curb, she kissed his forehead and said, “I love you.” Then she waited until he rang the buzzer and went in before driving away.
Inside, his dad had tried. There was a folding table with a plastic tablecloth. A small turkey in the oven. Football on mute.
“Happy Thanksgiving, kid.”
“Happy Thanksgiving.”
They played cards while the food cooked. His dad taught him how to shuffle like they did in casinos.
Over dinner, his dad said, “You know, we didn’t mean for it to happen this way.”
Luke nodded.
“We tried. But trying isn’t always enough.”
Luke stabbed at a piece of turkey. “Why did you stop trying?”
His dad looked down. “It wasn’t about you.”
“I know.”
“I mean it.”
Luke didn’t look up. “I know.”
They ate in silence after that.
After pie, his dad pulled out an old shoebox. Inside were papers, some tools, and the compass they used to use in the treehouse.
“Thought you might want this,” he said.
Luke took it, turned it over in his hands. The glass was scratched, but it still worked. North was still north.
“Thanks.”
They watched the fire after that. Said little.
When it was time for bed, Luke lay on the couch and stared at the ceiling.
His dad walked past once, paused, then turned off the light. “Goodnight, son.”
“Night.”
In the dark, Luke held the compass. He thought about the treehouse. About the wind and the picture in his coat. About stone. And waves. And the space between what breaks and what’s still left standing.
He didn’t cry.
But he didn’t feel like stone, either.
Not anymore.
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Inspiration for This Story.
The reason for this story is simple, but deep:
To show how divorce leaves quiet scars on children—scars that often go unnoticed.
Luke tells what is not said. It’s a story of a boy who holds everything in, because no one has shown him how to let it out. It captures:
The silent grief of a child who feels abandoned by both parents, even when they mean well.
The confusion of being split between two homes—yet belonging fully to neither.
The false front of being "fine," while underneath, trust, hope, and identity quietly erode.
The iceberg theory lives in every moment Luke doesn’t cry, every sentence he keeps short. What you read is surface. What you feel is depth.
Ultimately, it’s about resilience—but not the kind we glorify. It’s about a fragile kind of strength: the choice not to become stone, even when life breaks you.
—John Rinaldo
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Hey John
The impact of a broken home on an innocent kid for no fault of his is crystal clearly in this article 🥲
👍🏻👍🏻👍🏻
Loved it.
Yes, "North is still north."