The Noise Between Us

“Emily! I asked you to put your phone away! Just this once, can we please have dinner as a family?” My mom’s voice cut through the kitchen, sharp as the snap of a dry twig. Wooden spoon gripped tight in her hand, she glared at me from over the stove. Steam rose around her, but it was the heat in her eyes that made me flinch.

I didn’t look up. My thumb kept scrolling, the blue light from the screen washing over my face. I wanted to disappear into that little world—the only place where I could mute her, mute everything. “I’m just checking a message. It’s nothing,” I mumbled, my voice barely louder than the hum of the microwave.

“It’s always nothing, Emily. But to me, it means everything. I want us to eat together. Like a real family. Is that too much to ask?” She sounded tired, and beneath the irritation, there was something raw, almost desperate.

I sighed, louder than I meant to, and shoved the phone face-down on the table. “Fine. Whatever.”

Dad glanced up from his newspaper—yes, an actual newspaper, in 2024—trying to play peacemaker. “Let’s just eat, okay? The food’s getting cold.”

My little brother, Tyler, already had his headphones on, lost in some YouTube rabbit hole. No one yelled at him. No one ever did. I shot him a look, but he didn’t notice. Mom set the casserole down hard enough to make the plates rattle.

Dinner passed in a tense silence, punctuated by the clang of forks. I could feel Mom watching me. I could feel her disappointment, heavy as a winter blanket. I pushed peas around my plate, wishing I was anywhere but here.

Afterward, I escaped to my room. I closed the door, sat on my bed, and stared at the ceiling. The walls were thin. I could hear Mom and Dad’s muffled voices—arguing, again. They always thought we didn’t notice, but the noise seeped in. It always did.

I texted my best friend, Jess: “Ugh. Another family dinner. Why can’t they just leave me alone?”

She replied instantly: “You coming over this weekend? Party at Sam’s. Let’s get out of this town.”

I wanted to say yes. I wanted to say I’d do anything to escape. But Mom would never let me go. Not when she thought the world was out to corrupt me. Not when she clung to our little rituals, thinking they’d keep us together.

The next morning, I woke up to Mom standing in my doorway. “Emily, can we talk?”

I groaned. “Can it wait? I have a ton of homework.”

She stepped in anyway, closing the door behind her. “I know you’re going through a lot. I just—sometimes I wish you’d talk to me. Like you used to. You’ve changed.”

My chest tightened. “I’m not a kid anymore.”

She sat beside me, too close. “I miss you.”

I stared at my hands. “You miss controlling me.”

Her face fell. “That’s not fair. I just want what’s best for you.”

“You want what’s best for you,” I shot back. “You want this perfect family, but it’s all noise, Mom. You don’t even listen.”

She stood up, wiping her eyes. “Maybe one day you’ll understand.”

I wanted to yell after her, to tell her I was suffocating, but the words stuck in my throat. Instead, I buried my face in my pillow and let the tears come—silent, invisible.

Later that day, I overheard Mom on the phone with Aunt Lisa. “I just don’t know what to do with Emily. She’s so distant. I try everything, but she’s always angry.”

Aunt Lisa must have said something about letting go, because Mom’s voice rose. “Letting go? She’s my daughter! I can’t just let her drift away. Not after everything.”

I remembered when I was little, how Mom would braid my hair and sing along to the radio. How I’d beg her to tuck me in at night. When did everything change?

That night, I lay awake and listened to the house. The hum of the fridge. The distant bark of a neighbor’s dog. Tyler’s muffled laughter through the wall. And beneath it all, a deep, aching silence where love used to be.

At school, Jess tried to cheer me up. “You know, my mom’s the same. Always on my case. Maybe they’re just scared to let us grow up.”

“Maybe,” I said. But it didn’t help. Nothing did.

One rainy Friday, the argument exploded. I wanted to go to Sam’s party. Mom said no. I said I hated her. She slapped the counter. Dad yelled at both of us. Tyler ran upstairs, headphones clamped tight.

“Why can’t you trust me?” I screamed.

“Because I see what happens out there! Do you know how many kids end up—?”

“I’m not other kids!”

“You’re my kid!”

We were both crying by then. Dad stormed out. The whole house shook with our pain.

That night, I packed a bag. I didn’t know where I’d go—maybe Jess’s, maybe nowhere. I just needed out. But when I reached the front door, Mom was there, blocking my way.

“Please,” she whispered. “Don’t go. Not like this.”

I dropped the bag. We stood there, both of us shaking, neither willing to move. For the first time, I saw her—not just as my mother, but as a person. Scared. Tired. Desperate to hold onto something that was slipping away.

I didn’t leave. But I didn’t stay the same, either. We started talking, really talking. It wasn’t easy. Some days, the noise came back. Some days, the silence was worse. But we tried.

Sometimes I wonder: is peace just the absence of noise, or is it something you have to fight for? Do you ever really hear the people you love—or just the echoes of what you wish they’d say?