Silent Rooms, Shaking Hands: The Life That Is Mine
Content note: family conflict and domestic violence.
Dad is yelling again.
It’s louder than usual, filling the room, bouncing off the walls like thunder. His eyes are wild. I can’t tell if he’s angry at me. Or Mom. Or something else.
He slams his hand against the wall, and the picture rattles. My heart pounds as I clutch my Woody toy, squeezing it like it’ll keep me safe.
Mom’s yelling too, her voice like glass breaking.
“No empieces a estar queriendo quebrar cosas nomás porque sí!”
She’s pointing, shaking—cracked open, but still fighting. She won’t look at me.
“Don’t you dare tell me what to do! Especially in my house. Si yo lo quiero quebrar, yo lo voy a quebrar!”
Dad’s face is red. I don’t want to look. But I can’t stop. The room is shrinking, pushing in on me. I press my back against the wall, hoping it’ll stop if I’m small enough, quiet enough.
Dad slams his hand down on the kitchen table. A dish falls, shattering on the floor. I flinch.
“Yo hago lo que se me dé la gana en esta casa. It’s my house, mi casa! I don’t care si tú, la vecina, or any other cabrón has to say about it!” he roars.
Mom steps back, her face wet with tears, but somehow she keeps yelling, her words crashing into his like fists.
“A mí no me importa si es tu casa o si tú pagas todo! Lárgate de la casa inmediatamente! Pero ahorita, ya.”
My knees are pulled up to my chest, and I’m pressing into myself, hoping it’ll hold everything together.
I feel a small, warm presence next to me.
My sister, Luna.
I’d forgotten she was here. She clutches my shirt, her face pressed into my side. She’s so small—too small to be anywhere near this.
I pull her close, wrapping my arms around her like Mom would.