Through the keyhole

He looks agitated. He's pacing. He doesn't know what else to do. His fists are clenched. He occasionally runs his fingers through his unkempt hair. He comes to a standstill. He slowly turns to face her. His hands are now at his waist. He lets out a sigh.
She doesn't realise he's looking at her. She continues to sob quietly. Her face is buried in her palms. Her back is almost arched as she sits on the edge of the bed. She looks up at the photograph on the wall. She runs out of tears. She turns to face him.
Nothing is said. They stare in silence, their gazes unable to bridge the distances between them. The decision has been made. Through this minuscule keyhole shaped window, I watch. I watch as my mother pushes back the stray strands of hair decisively. I watch as my father methodically wipes his spectacles. I watch as they give each other one last look. I watch my life change, a mute spectator on this side of the keyhole.