When you step inside the house, the silence hits first.
Not peaceful silence. Not nap-time silence. This is a curated silence, a staged silence, the kind that exists because someone has trained the people inside it not to make noise. Then you hear your mother upstairs, her voice cool, clipped, and almost bored.
“Dry your face before he gets home. I won’t have him walking in on that pathetic look.”
You stand there with your hand still on the front door, and the truth lands with the force of a car accident.
You are not walking into a family disagreement.
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