Silence That’s Mine

I used to think every house sounded like mine at night. Doors slamming. Footsteps pacing.

The sharp inhale before someone decided you’d done something wrong again. I learned early

how to become small. How to breathe quietly. How to listen for the exact tone of my father’s voice

that meant I should disappear. My mother never stopped him—she just watched,

arms crossed, like pain was something I needed to grow into. At school,

teachers called me “mature for my age.” They didn’t know it was because I’d already learned

how to read moods like warning signs. I knew when to smile, when to apologize, and when to stay

silent. Silence kept me alive. The worst part wasn’t the yelling or the