Silence louder than silence
910 Words
The sound of the front door opening echoed down the long, high-ceilinged hallway like thunder in a cathedral. I stood just outside the kitchen, hands wiped clean on a dish towel, heart starting to thump as I heard the click of Lila’s little school shoes on the marble floor.
She was home.
I wasn’t sure what I expected—maybe that she’d run to me with open arms like in one of those soft-focus movies where the nanny wins over the child on day one. But this was real life. And in this house, nothing seemed soft.
I smoothed my shirt and walked slowly toward the entry hall, my feet silent on the carpet runner. Damian’s deep voice drifted into the hallway, firm and clipped as always. He spoke to the driver in low tones, not looking back as he handed over Lila’s school bag and turned away, disappearing into the study without so much as a glance at his daughter.
She stood still near the door, her pink coat too big for her small frame, her blonde hair slightly mussed. She didn’t see me at first. Her tiny shoulders were squared like she was bracing for something—someone.
“Hey, Lila,” I said gently, stepping into view.
She looked up sharply, her blue eyes wide and startled.
“It’s just me,” I added, keeping my voice low and soft. “Callie.”
She nodded slightly, barely. She didn’t smile.
“You had school today, right?” I asked, trying to coax something out of her. “Was it… okay?”
She didn’t answer. Her lips pressed into a tight line, and her eyes flicked away.
“Would you like to sit down?” I tried again. “Or maybe I can help you take your coat off?”
Her arms stiffened at the offer. She tugged her own coat off in a hurry and clutched it like a shield in front of her.
“Okay,” I said softly, raising my hands in surrender. “You’re good. That’s fine.”
A beat passed. Her gaze darted to the floor, then to the staircase. She didn’t move. Her small fingers clenched the coat tighter.
And then—loudly, suddenly—the housekeeper dropped a pan in the kitchen behind me.
The sound wasn’t even that sharp, but Lila flinched violently. Her whole body jerked like she’d been struck.
My heart cracked wide open.
“Oh, sweetheart…” I said instinctively, but she was already backing away. She turned and started up the stairs without a word.
I watched her go, my hands helpless at my sides.
She didn’t look back.
Later that afternoon, I found her in the small reading room off the east wing, curled up on a window seat beneath the heavy drapes, staring outside at the manicured garden. Her school shoes had been abandoned by the doorway, and she’d changed into a soft lilac cardigan and leggings with little stars on the knees.
I knocked gently on the doorframe before stepping in.
“Hi again,” I said. “I thought this might be a nice spot to read together. If you wanted.”
No response. Not even a flicker.
“I brought a few books,” I continued, showing her the small stack in my hands. “Some picture books. Some with animals. One about a bear who loses his favorite scarf—it’s very dramatic.”
Nothing.
I sat down on the opposite side of the window seat, giving her space. I didn’t touch her. Didn’t move too close. Just opened the first book and started reading.
My voice was steady and warm, like I was telling the story to the room instead of to her.
At first, she kept staring out the window. But five pages in, her head tilted—just slightly. Her lashes fluttered.
By the time the bear found his scarf under his bed (spoiler alert), I caught her sneaking a glance at the pictures.
Victory. Tiny, silent, invisible victory.
“I used to lose things all the time,” I said casually, closing the book. “When I was a kid, I once lost my shoe and blamed it on a raccoon. My dad didn’t believe me.”
She didn’t smile. But she blinked, like she was thinking about it.
“Do you ever lose things?” I asked softly.
A pause.
Then, a whisper so quiet I almost didn’t hear it:
“My lunchbox.”
I blinked. “Really? What did it look like?”
She hesitated, then said: “It had unicorns.”
“That sounds awesome,” I said with a grin. “I’ve never had a unicorn lunchbox. I bet that was your favorite.”
She nodded. Barely.
I wanted to ask if her dad helped her look for it. But something in me knew the answer already.
Instead, I said, “Well, if we ever find it, we’ll have to throw a party. Just you and me. Unicorn cake and all.”
Her eyes flicked toward me.
No smile. But something softer passed through her expression—curiosity, maybe. Or disbelief that someone would throw a party for her over something so small.
I stayed for a little while longer. We read another book. I didn’t try to ask more questions, didn’t push.
Sometimes connection wasn’t about the words. It was about the silence between them—and sitting in it, unafraid.
- Writer
