Mom's name is Martha, but everyone calls her "Ma" because it's easier to yell. Dad's James. He fixes everything except himself. My brothers: Luke, Noah, Ben, Eli, Tom, and the twins—Sam and Samuel.Don't ask. My sisters: Grace, Mary, and Ruth. I'm somewhere in the middle. That's where things go missing.
We've got two dogs, one cat, and a rooster that screams at midnight. No one told him the rules.
Our toys are hand-me-downs with teeth marks on them. Some nights, they move on their own.
The neighbors keep their curtains closed. They say they don't hear the crying.
But I'm sure they do.
Night is the only time the house breathes easy. The noise settles, the babies drool into silence, and Ma hums hymns that sound like apologies. Dad snores in his chair, mouth open, eyes twitching. He talks in his sleep—names we don't know, promises no one asked for.
I like walking the hallway when everyone's asleep. The floors creak under my feet, whispering things like "again" and "still." I pretend they're saying my name.
Sometimes I see the shadow in the attic door crack. It looks down, slow and patient. Once, I waved. It waved back.