Whispers Through Walls

When you’re a kid, you think your parents know everything. 
How to fix things. How to talk through stuff. 
How to stay in love. 

But nobody tells you what to do when the two people who raised you… stop looking at each other. 
Stop sleeping in the same room. 
Stop talking—unless it’s to fight. 

And nobody tells you how much of it you’re supposed to feel. 

Or blame yourself for. 

The first time I knew something was really wrong, my mom asked me to ride my bike. 

It sounds harmless—sweet, even. But she didn’t look me in the eye when she said it. And her voice was too chipper. Too bright for a Saturday evening. 

“Go clear your head, Ellie,” she said. “It’s a perfect night for it.” 

It was 38 degrees outside. 

I went anyway. 

Because I already knew something was happening. Something loud. Something quiet. 

Something wrong. 

It had been two weeks. 

Two weeks since I stopped sleeping properly. 

Two weeks since my dad moved into the guest room. Or maybe it was my sister’s room—she wasn’t around much anymore. 

Two weeks of half-heard arguments and slammed doors and trying not to breathe too loudly when I walked down the hall. 

At 16, I’ve learned two things: first, parents will lie when they think it’s protecting you. Second, silence is worse than yelling. 

Because yelling, at least, is something. But silence? Silence is empty. It leaves space for your imagination to fill with worst-case scenarios. 

I heard them last night. 

My mom was crying. Not sobbing. Just… that quiet, crumpled kind of crying. The kind that sounds like someone trying not to exist too loudly. 

My dad was out. Or maybe hiding in the garage again. 

And then today, he wanted to take me out. Just me and him. 

He’s been doing that a lot lately. 

Suddenly he wants to play video games with me. Make dinner. Go for drives. Buy snacks I haven’t eaten since I was 10. 

I should be happy, right? 

Except I can’t shake the way his eyes look when I ask him how work’s going. 

Or how my mom flinched when he offered to call “the woman” in front of us all to prove he wasn’t lying. 

The woman. 

As in: someone else. 

And I don’t know what to believe. 

I’m not supposed to know. 

But I’ve heard things. 

My mom’s voice breaking as she said, “You’ve been talking to her for years, haven’t you?” 

My dad shouting, “You never trusted me. Never.” 

My mom whispering, “The kids—just lower your voice—” 

And then my dad: 

“The kids already know everything. You’ve been talking about it constantly for weeks!” 

That’s the worst part. 

Not knowing if I know too much… 
Or not enough. 

My older sister, Ava, is 23. She’s back home from college for exams and lives between coffee cups and breakdowns. 

We don’t talk about it much. Just quick exchanges in the kitchen. 

Me: “Mom’s still in her room.” 

Her: “Dad’s been gone since 6.” 

She’s trying to hold it together. Study. Pretend it’s normal. 

But her voice shakes when she says “it’ll be okay.” 

Then there’s Noah. 

My little brother. 

He’s 9. Loves dinosaurs and orange soda. Still believes we’re all too busy to play Monopoly with him. 

He doesn’t know what’s going on. 

At least, I don’t think he does. 

But he asked me last night if Mom and Dad were mad at him. 

I said no. 

He asked if we were moving. 

I said no. 

He asked if they still loved each other. 

I didn’t answer. 

There are no manuals for this. 

No guidance counselors you want to talk to. 
No BuzzFeed quiz to decode your parents’ tension. 

Just you. 

Alone in bed, blanket up to your chin, pretending the walls aren’t paper-thin and the world isn’t spinning faster than it used to. 

Some days, I think it’s my fault. 

Did I do something? 

Is it because I forgot to unload the dishwasher? 

Because I’ve been skipping math tutoring? 

Because I said something I shouldn’t have? 

I know it’s not really me. 

But that doesn’t stop the thought from creeping in at 2:30 a.m. 

Then came the night everything cracked open. 

Dad was gone again. 

Mom made dinner but didn’t eat. Just sat there, phone face-down, fork untouched. 

I cleared the plates. Said nothing. 

She looked up and whispered, “Do you think I’m a bad mom?” 

I froze. My heart thudded. 

“I don’t know what to do,” she said. “I don’t want to tear this family apart.” 

I stood there, holding a plate like it was the only thing tethering me to Earth. 

And all I said was, “Then tell me what’s going on.” 

She blinked. Shook her head. 

“You don’t need to worry about it.” 

But I was worrying. Every day. Every night. 

That night, Ava sat with me in my room. 

She brought tea she didn’t drink and whispered, “I think he might’ve cheated. Or maybe he didn’t. I don’t know. She’s accusing. He’s denying. Nobody’s talking.” 

“I just want to know what’s true,” I said. 

She nodded. “Me too.” 

We sat there in silence. 

Not because we had nothing to say. 

But because we didn’t know where to put all the pain. 

The next morning, Dad made waffles. 

Like nothing had happened. 

He put whipped cream on them, like when we were little. 

Noah was giggling. Mom stayed in her room. 

And I just stared at the syrup sliding down my plate like it had answers I didn’t. 

A week later, I found out the truth. 

Not from either of them. But from a text Ava accidentally left open on her laptop. 

“He was texting someone else for years. Nothing physical, but still… Mom’s broken. And he’s acting like it’s no big deal.” 

My stomach dropped. 

So it was real. Not just a hunch or a theory. Real. 

It wasn’t some miscommunication. 

It wasn’t my imagination. 

It wasn’t my fault. 

But what do you do with that kind of truth? 

Do you stop eating waffles with your dad? 

Do you stop hugging your mom? 

Do you scream? Cry? Pretend you never read it? 

I didn’t know. 

So I did what I always do. 

I took care of Ava when she couldn’t study anymore. 
I helped Noah with his spelling words. 
I smiled through dinner. 

And then I cried alone in bed. 

Again. 

I don’t know if they’ll get divorced. 

I don’t know if Mom will forgive him. 

Or if Dad will ever admit it out loud. 

But here’s what I do know: 

I’m not supposed to be the one holding the pieces. 

I’m not supposed to be wondering who’s lying and who’s hurting more. 

I’m a kid. 

I deserve to know enough to not feel like I’m crazy. 

But I also deserve not to be the middleman in someone else’s war. 

If you’re reading this, and you’ve ever felt like this— 

Like your parents are imploding and you’re the only one who sees it… 

Like every silence between them is a scream only you can hear… 

Like your childhood is slipping between the cracks in the drywall… 

You’re not alone. 

You’re not wrong for wanting answers. 

You’re not selfish for feeling confused. 

And most of all— 
You are not responsible for fixing broken adults. 

Comment Question: 

Have you ever felt caught in the middle of something your parents weren’t ready to talk about? How did you cope with the silence?