I remember our parents called us into the kitchen, over to the little stools that my mom begged so earnestly for, the stools that no one had sat in until now.

I breathed in.

I breathed out. Something wasn’t right; we never sat on these stools.

No one noticed I was silent except for my breathing.

My mom was crying, I hated when she was crying, I hated when the heightened voices of my parents filled our small home. Making it simply a house, with no safe haven for my sister and me. Instead we would build forts out of old sheets and tape, chairs that we had for eating dinner at, and the best pieces were always the stools that no one used for sitting in. But they made great forts.

Now we were sitting in them, and clutching the edges as tight as our small hands would allow. The curved edges filling our palms with that smooth feeling of fake wood.

I breathed in

I breathed out

No one noticed.

I could see my dad’s cheeks were shining in the fluorescent lights eerie luminescence. Accentuating everything, especially the tears that were on his cheeks, tattooing them with the lightning bolt patterns that tears always leave.