The house felt chilly when Angela arrived home.
She softly shut the front door, almost instinctively attempting to remain silent. Even silence had to tread lightly here. The scent of onions and aged dust lingered in the air. A heap of dirty laundry rested in a corner, beside a malfunctioning ceiling fan that her father had vowed to repair a year earlier. Everything remained the same.
Her mother hadn't returned home yet.
Angela sighed, setting her bag down beside the couch. Her shoulders dropped with a sense of relief and fatigue. She was unaware that she had been holding her breath since departing from school. That's what home did to her—it made her feel like a target.
She strolled into the kitchen. The plates remained in the sink from the previous night. She filled the basin with water and started washing them, the sponge gliding over the plates gradually, her mind wandering.
She recalled what Gabriel had mentioned.
"I'm present." "I'm staying."
It resonated in her mind in a manner that seemed strange. Not that people never said nice things occasionally—but because they often didn't linger long enough to truly signify them.
Her sibling often expressed kind remarks as well. Prior to his departure.
Angela completed the dishes and tidied the living room. She accomplished it instinctively, without instruction or consideration. It had turned into muscle memory. Completing household tasks wasn't about being useful. It was focused on survival. If the home was messy when her mother got back, she'd figure out a way to vent her frustrations on Angela.
At one time, it was a hit. On another occasion, it was more severe. Her mother's anger had no predictable patterns—only the assurance that it would inevitably arrive.
Angela entered her room and lay down, her face hidden in the pillow. Once more, her ear pulsed—her injured one. On certain days, it throbbed with a muted weight that amplified everything else. She pushed her hand against it, as if she could extract the pain.
She slipped into a light slumber. Not truly dreaming, merely drifting. Suddenly, she listened as the door banged shut.
Her mom was at home.
Angela sprang up and hurried downstairs.
"Good evening, Ma," she said hurriedly, her tone airy, tentative.
Her mother took some time to reply. She removed her shoes, placed her bag on the ground, and entered the kitchen. Angela trailed at a distance.
She paused.
"Why is there soap left in the sink?" her mother yelled, banging a cabinet closed. "You didn't wash it off thoroughly."
Angela felt a wave of despair. "I... I did, Mom." I believed I—"
"Do not respond defiantly!"
Angela stood still.
Her mother faced her, gaze weary yet piercing. She appeared as if she hadn't rested in days, as though the world itself was a burden she couldn't bear. But rather than letting it go, she gave fragments of it to Angela, day after day.
"You believe I don't face difficulties?" her mother whispered. "Do you believe you're the only one in pain?"
Angela remained silent. She was aware of the truth.
"Head to your room."
Angela complied, moving away gradually. She listened to her mother exhale deeply behind her, followed by the snap of a lighter and the subtle aroma of smoke.
She softly shut her door.
That evening, Angela reclined in bed gazing at the ceiling, just as she had that Sunday morning during service. Her mind whirled around.
What if I truly am the issue?
What if I vanished and nobody even realized?
She considered escaping. But where would she head? Who would welcome her?
Gabriel's voice returned once more, like a soft wind.
"I can see you clearly."
She reached out to the window next to her bed. It was a bit damaged, but through it, she could glimpse the sky. Several stars twinkled in response to her. The night was still, yet not vacant. The tranquility held a sense of reassurance.
For the first time in a long while, she voiced her thoughts aloud.
"I wish I wouldn't stay like this always," she murmured.
It wasn't a supplication.
It was not a desire.
It was a choice.
She had no idea what would be different or when it would happen. Yet she understood that something needed to change. She couldn't continue bearing her pain quietly. She couldn't continue minimizing herself to accommodate her mother's anger.
She considered the idea of writing.
Her instructor had previously commended a tale she crafted in English class—a brief one concerning a bird that forgot its ability to sing. Perhaps writing could serve as her voice, the one she was too afraid to express in reality.
Perhaps that's how she might endure in this home.
Not through running.
Not through shouting.
However, by recalling her true self when no one was looking.
Angela rose gradually and retrieved a notebook from beneath her mattress. It contained several old pages missing, the cover was creased, but it belonged to her.
She turned to a blank page and gripped the pen as if it could save her life.
She then penned:
Today I again walked to school. My mother abandoned me. Once more.
Gabriel stated I am not unseen. I'm attempting to trust him.
I have no desire to die. I simply wish to feel secure.
I want to feel like I matter.
Maybe one day, I will.
She stared at the words for a long moment.
Then she closed the notebook and hid it back under the mattress.
Outside, the wind rustled the trees softly.
And for the first time in a long time, the silence didn't feel like a prison.
It felt like a pause.
Like a beginning.