Sometimes, I think they like me better silent. I don’t talk back. I don’t scream. Even when I’m there, they can be alone in the house with their shouting. It’s like…I’m not really there.

There was one night, when I was nine, when my parents went out for the night. I’m not sure if it was a date or what, I just remember that they decided that I was old enough to stay home without a babysitter. So I made myself a peanut butter sandwich for dinner, ate it in front of the television. I tucked myself into bed, and waited. I waited for the screaming and yelling that always lured me to sleep, until I realized that I really was alone. And it really wasn’t coming.

I cried myself to sleep that night. Because, even though I hated the fighting, to my nine-year-old ears, the silence sounded worse. The silence was the sound of being all alone.

The next morning, my mother kissed me good morning, and asked if I’d gotten along all right by myself. I had smiled and flipped my pillow so that you couldn’t see the tearstains.