Through the Ears of a Child
A Work of Fiction
She always heard them. With their whispered tones and hushed aggression. She always saw them. With their deliberate smiles that looked as crooked as the mailbox that he never fixed. Every day was the same. It was a show. For her. But she always knew.
Late at night, she could hear her closing the door, opening the door, crying, sighing, flying into a low-level rage because at 12:41 a.m. you can’t wake the baby. And then they would argue about who really wanted to wake the baby. And the whole time she thought, do they even know I am not a baby anymore?
Those breakfast grins, tight like wired jaws, greeted her with sitcom morningness, but she knew. They blocked their scene. Dutiful mom brings breakfast to the table. Kisses husband on the top of the head and smiles at their offspring. Dad overdoes the thank you and when they think she isn’t looking, their faces drop. Droop. They are low. Their faces are low.
She didn’t know how to tell them to stop the charade and move on with their lives. She didn’t know how to tell them that the thought of them living in different houses sounded amazing. She didn’t know how to tell them that they were setting a terrible example for her. She just didn’t have the words.
