I was too little to understand grown-up things—the conversations whispered behind half-closed doors,the arguments swallowed before they turned into storms,the way tension hangs in the air thicker than humidity in summer.
But babies feel things.Kids notice things.Even when no one says the words.
And in that little government apartment,I started noticing the quiet.
Not the peaceful kind of quiet,the kind that settles over you like a blanket.No—this was the quiet people use when they're too tired to fightbut too hurt to pretend everything's okay.
Mama tried to fill the silence with movement.She cleaned the kitchen even when it was already clean.She folded laundry twice.She ran her fingers through my hair over and overlike she needed something soft to anchor her.
Daddy came around, but not in the way mamas hope fathers will.Sometimes he'd show up with work dust still clinging to his clothes,smelling like the road and exhaustion.Other times days would pass without him,and Mama would stare at the phone like it was supposed to explain why.
I didn't understand the weight she carried,but I felt the way she held me tighter those nights,my cheek pressed against her heartbeatlike she needed me near just to breathe right.
When he visited, I studied them the way little kids do—with wide eyes and a quiet heart.
Mama's smile was too small.Daddy's was too late.And between them was something I didn't have a word for yet.Distance.Doubt.Memories of choices neither of them could take back.
I didn't know then that Mama hadn't been sure who my father really was.I didn't know about the DNA tests or the worry she tried to hide behind long sighs.I didn't know how heavy guilt can sit on someone's shoulderswhen they're already trying to carry a whole new life.
But I felt the tension,the careful way they spoke around each other,the tiny flinches Mama made when Daddy avoided her eyes,the way she whispered, "Please just try,"like she wasn't talking to him—but to fate.
Still, Mama never let her sadness spill onto me.
If I cried, she was there instantly,rocking me until her own breathing slowed.If the power flickered again,she'd hum a lullaby off-keyand pretend she meant to turn the lights low,like it was all part of some cozy bedtime game.
She was trying so hard to build a life from scratch—one she hoped he'd show up for,one she hoped I'd be proud to grow up in.
But even small children know when something doesn't fit.
Daddy held me like he wasn't sure how to be gentle.Mama held me like I was the only thing in the world she trusted.
Between them—I learned what love looked likeand what it didn't.
I learned the difference between being wantedand being needed.
I learned how a baby can become the glue in a familyeven if the pieces never quite fit together right.
And I learned that sometimes the quiet between two peopletells a louder story than any fight ever could.