I didn’t hear you argue—
not loudly.
But I heard the silence afterward.
It throbbed louder than a scream.
The scent of your sadness clung to the curtains.
I knew something was wrong when you stopped singing while folding my clothes.
You hugged me tighter those nights.
Like I was your anchor,
or maybe just your only witness
that you were still trying.
Dad came home with smiles that didn’t reach his eyes.
He called me “buddy,”
but his mind wandered—
maybe to her, maybe to escape.
His shoes were polished,
but they brought in dirt I couldn’t see.
I saw you crying once.
You said it was the onions,
but we didn’t have any in the house.
I used to draw our family with three smiles.
Now I forget what color to paint Dad’s shirt.
Blue feels too warm.
Grey feels more honest.
I just want you both to talk to me.
Not like a child—
but like the part of you that’s still holding on to what we were.
They say children forget.
But I remember in shadows.
Not the slam of doors—
but how the light felt wrong after they closed.
You both thought I wasn’t listening.
I was.
I always do.
Between spoonfuls of rice,
between cartoons and bedtime prayers—
I pieced together the truth
like a broken puzzle with jagged edges.
Mom, you stopped humming while cooking.
Dad, you started wearing cologne that didn’t smell like you.
Small things. Big meanings.
I saw you, Mom—
with eyes that tried not to cry when I handed you my drawing.
Us three stick figures, holding hands.
You said it was beautiful,
but your voice broke somewhere between “beau” and “tiful.”
And I wondered…
if drawings can lie.
Dad, I missed you even when you were there.
You sat on the couch but leaned toward silence.
You smiled, but your phone seemed happier than your face.
I saw the lipstick on your collar.
I’m young, but not blind.
And when you hugged me, it felt borrowed.
I hear things in whispers.
Things like “mistress” and “betrayal” and “I should’ve left sooner.”
Words I don’t know how to spell,
but somehow know how they hurt.
I started keeping secrets, too.
Like how I stopped writing your name in my homework, Dad.
Like how I pretend to sleep
when I hear Mom crying in the kitchen.
You both gave me life.
But now I feel like I’m holding your regrets in my backpack.
Heavy. Quiet. Hidden.
Sometimes I wonder…
If I’m enough to fix it.
If love was ever enough to keep us safe.
I don’t know what healing looks like.
But I know what hurting sounds like.
It’s in our house now.
And I tuck it in at night.