Chapter 1
Did my opinion ever matter?
I stayed quiet, because they were loud enough for the three of us, slamming doors and ignored opinions and anger in every room, your words scraping the walls like nails, so I learned to live in the silence, like a second home.
Now they’re gone, boxes packed with they’re own versions of what happened, and all they left behind is the silence, thick, heavy, the kind that rings in my ears at 2 a.m. when I’m trying to remember if there was ever a time you saw me without that disappointment in your eyes.
I stayed quiet, because I learned that when I spoke, you would snap my words in half. Your right I’m wrong. That’s it. That is the only way things can or will ever be. Make me feel dumb, worthless, small, like my voice was a stain you needed to scrub out of the room, like every question I asked was a reminder of how little you really wanted to know me. How do you life with a stranger in you house?
I listened to conversations I will never be a part of, heard you talking in the kitchen about futures I wasn’t allowed to have, dreams you had for me that you never asked if I wanted, secrets you thought I wouldn’t understand, because you thought I was too young, too stupid, too naïve,
but I heard it all, and I understood more than you ever gave me credit for.
Who cares how I’m doing, as long as my grades are good, as long as I’m breathing, as long as I’m smiling in family photos, as long as I say “fine” when you ask, and don’t cause trouble.
You never saw the nights I laid awake, replaying every conversation, wondering what I could have done to be enough, to make you look at me and see me, to talk to me like I’m worth your time, not your regrets, not your frustrations, not your unfinished life you tried to push onto mine.
You never saw the mornings when I would stare in the mirror, practicing the right tone to say “I’m okay” so you wouldn’t look at me like I was a problem to fix, so you wouldn’t remind me how much of a burden my feelings are.
You never saw the crash-outs and burnouts and the tears that burned my skin, you only saw the lazy girl, the mess that “hates you”.
Now the house is empty, the loudness moved out with them, and the silence you left behind
is louder than the yelling ever was.
I walk through these rooms, finding pieces of the kid I was, the one who wanted to show you art projects, songs I wrote, poems, the kid who wanted you to notice when I was sad, or scared, or proud of myself.
You never did. I don’t know if you ever will. But I do.
And maybe one day, when the echoes of they’re voices fade,
I’ll let mine be loud enough for me. Or maybe one day I will also move out and find the peace that I won’t ever be able to find here.
This house doesn’t feel like a home anymore and it hasn’t felt that way in a long time…
I’ll speak for that kid you never listened to, and I’ll be soft with her, the way you weren’t, and I’ll let her cry, and I’ll let her laugh, and I’ll let her feel every feeling you told her was too much, too dramatic, too inconvenient.
And maybe then, in the quiet they left me with, I’ll finally get to hear myself, and learn that I was never dumb, never worthless, never too much.
Just too alive for a family that couldn’t hear me. And I hope to bring back the kid you silenced. If she is even there anymore.
And maybe, just maybe I will make peace with the fact the you will never be sorry. I won’t ever get that apology.
