Quiet times

Home

The gate was open.

Not all the way. Just a c***k. Just enough to see the dark inside. Just enough to feel wrong.

Bell’s stomach dropped. The gate was never open when she got home. Never. Not in six years.

Her dad was always the last one in. Always locked it behind him. Always checked it twice. Always made that clicking sound with the latch.

Her dad’s car was in the driveway. Parked crooked, like he’d rushed it.

Her mom’s work bag was on the kitchen chair, half-zipped, receipts spilling out like she’d dropped it and didn’t care. Like she’d thrown it.

The house smelled like lemon cleaner and something else underneath it. Something sour. Stale. Like secrets that had been sitting too long.

Inside, her mom was on the phone in the hallway. Her back was to the door. Shoulders tight. Rigid.

"I don’t care what you said. I’m done covering for you."

A pause. Her mom’s knuckles were white around the phone.

"Yeah. With the kids right here. Like always. You think they don’t notice? You think I’m blind?"

Bell froze in the doorway. Her backpack felt like it weighed a hundred pounds. Her keys were still in her hand.

Her mom turned. Saw her.

And the look on her face wasn’t anger.

It was something worse. Hurt. Exhaustion. Like she’d been carrying something too heavy for too long and her arms were about to give out. Like she’d been crying in the car before she came in.

"You’re late," her mom said. Voice flat. Empty. Drained. "Where were you?"

"School," Bell whispered. "We had presentations."

Her mom just stared for a second. Like she was looking through Bell, not at her. Like Bell wasn’t really there.

Then she walked past her to the kitchen. No hug. No "how was it." No "I missed you." Just the sound of the fridge opening and closing too hard. Too loud.

In the living room, her dad was on the phone too. Laughing.

Too loud. Fake. The kind of laugh he used with clients. "Yeah, baby. Later. I’ll make it up to you. I promise. Cross my heart."

He saw Bell and the laugh died instantly. Like someone cut the power. Like someone hit mute.

"Hey, kid."

Bell nodded and kept walking. To her room.

She didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Her throat was full of glass. Her chest was tight.

Her little brother and sister were on the floor by the TV. Homework spread out. Crayons everywhere. Math worksheets half-finished.

They didn’t look up. They never did when the house felt like this. When the air got heavy.

The air was thick. Like before a storm. Like the moment before glass shatters. Like the second before someone screams.

Dinner was a minefield.

Her mom pushed food around her plate. Didn’t eat. "I do everything. Nobody helps. Nobody sees. I come home and it’s still a mess. I work all day and come home to this."

Her dad ate fast. Head down. Phone face-down next to his plate. But it buzzed twice. Once. Twice.

He didn’t look at it. His jaw ticked.

Her brother and sister ate in silence, heads down. Forks scraping plates.

After, Bell was supposed to be doing homework. Algebra. Essay.

But the house was too quiet.

She heard her dad’s voice. Low. From his office. Muffled through the door.

And her mom’s voice. Sharp. From the kitchen. Clinking dishes.

Bell told herself not to listen. Told herself to go to her room.

But her feet moved anyway. Like they had their own mind.

She stopped outside the kitchen door. Didn’t go in. Pressed her back to the wall.

"...you promised me," her mom was saying. Voice low but shaking. Breaking.

"I’m working late," her dad said. Calm. Too calm.

"At 2am? With who? Don’t lie to me. Not again."

A long pause. The kind of pause that stretches.

Bell’s heart was in her throat. She could hear her own breathing. Too loud.

"Don’t do this now," her dad said.

"When then? When the kids are asleep and you’re gone again? When I find another receipt? Another hotel charge?"

Another pause. Heavier this time.

Then her dad: "You’re imagining things."

The dish in the sink clattered.

Bell jumped back from the door. Ran to her room. Heart pounding. Feet silent on the carpet.

She shut the door. Hands shaking. Locked it.

Imagining things.

Her little sister knocked. Soft. Three taps. "Bell?"

"Yeah?"

"You crying?"

"No."

A pause. "Okay. Goodnight."

Footsteps walked away. Small.

Bell sat on the edge of her bed.

She opened her notebook. The curtain drawing on the cover. The one she’d spent hours on.

She traced it with her finger. Then she drew a line through it. Hard.

The pen tore the paper. Ripped it.

At home, she was invisible.

At home, she was also the problem.

And tonight, she knew something she wasn’t supposed to know.

She stared at the line she’d drawn. Black and angry.

Then she flipped the page.

On the next page was a photo.

She didn’t remember putting it there. She’d never seen it before.

It was her dad.

Laughing.

With his arm around a woman who was NOT her mom.

They were at a restaurant. Candles. Wine. His hand on her back.

The woman had red lipstick. And she was smiling at him like he belonged to her.

And on the back, in handwriting she didn’t recognize:

We should tell her.

Bell’s blood went cold. Ice in her veins.

The photo wasn’t hers.

Which meant someone put it in her notebook.

Someone in this house. While she was at school.

She looked at her closed door.

A floorboard creaked in the hallway.

Bell’s head snapped up.

The creak came again. Closer.

Someone was standing outside her door. Right outside.

She didn’t breathe. Held it.

The doorknob turned. Slow. Click.

Bell grabbed the photo and shoved it under her pillow. Her heart was hammering.

The door opened a c***k.

Light from the hallway spilled in. Yellow and harsh.

"Did you hear something?" It was her mom’s voice. Whispered. Tense.

"Probably the house," her dad answered. Also whispered. Rough.

A pause. Long.

"Check her room," her mom said.

Bell pulled the blanket up to her chin. Pretended to be asleep. Breathed slow.

Her eyes were closed but she could see the light through her eyelids.

The door opened wider.

Footsteps. Soft. On the carpet.

They stopped right beside her bed.

Bell could feel someone looking at her. Staring.

She could smell her dad’s cologne.

Then her dad’s voice, low: "She’s asleep."

Another pause.

"Leave her," her mom said. "We’ll talk in the morning."

The door closed. Soft click.

The footsteps went away. Down the hall.

Bell waited until she couldn’t hear them anymore. Counted to 100.

Then she pulled the photo out from under her pillow.

Her hands were shaking.

Someone in this house knew.

Someone wanted her to find out.

And now her parents were talking about her. In the morning.

She flipped the photo over again.

We should tell her.

Tell her what?

That her dad was cheating?

Or something else? Something worse?

Outside her window, a car engine started.

Her dad’s car.

At 11:47pm.

Bell got up and went to the window. Pulled the curtain back an inch.

She watched his taillights disappear down the street. Red dots in the dark.

He said he was working late.

But he’d just told her mom that to her face. Lied.

And now he was leaving. Again.

Bell looked down at the photo in her hand.

Then she looked at her phone. No messages. No calls.

At home, she was invisible.

At home, she was the problem.

And now, someone wanted her to know.

The question was:

Who put the photo there?

And what were they going to do in the morning?

And why was her dad leaving at midnight?