Then
They’re fighting again.
They are easily heard: their voices, vicious and stressed, carry so well. They are taking it out on each other. They are punishing one another.
You were supposed to be watching him.
You weren’t supposed to come home falling-down pissed.
How could you think I am responsible? You’re the one who tricked me, remember?
I love you.
I hate you.
Their words seep into my bones. How has it come to this? How has the hate between them grown to this level?
We sip tea and look at each other, listening. Do they not know we can hear them? Do they not care? It’s understandable to a point, their loss, so great, so unimaginable. No one should have to bury a child. No one should bear that burden.
And yet...people do. All the time. Children die, incrementally, all the time, whether their hearts stop or their babysitter decides to teach them the birds and the bees or their parents do drugs and beat them. They all die, little pieces falling off them as they age. Some go in the ground; others, the ones who are still breathing, are stripped of their inner joy.
It is inevitable. It is life. Even if they make it out of their adolescence, especially then, the sparks that flame them into individuality are extinguished.
Is it better to be a walking corpse, a shroud of who you could be, or leave this world before the disappointment of your lack of potential emerges?
Philosophy. Such a devious monster.
But the yelling, the yelling.
We sip more tea and look wide-eyed at each other.
Should we do something? Should we call someone?
If we do, the police will come, and it will be embarrassing for them both.
But she will be safe.
We must keep her safe.
We make the call. Wait, and watch, as the cruiser pulls up. The officer marches to the door, knocks three times. Another car slides around the corner.
The screaming stops.
We smile.
* * *
It’s hard, keeping up this facade for everyone. You know I like the fighting, don’t you? You’re putting it together, I know you are.