I went to stay

with a family

for five days.

Five days

that pressed against my chest,

that felt endless

like a held breath.

The mother’s voice

always rising,

no filter,

no softness,

sharp edges on every word.

The son

answering back

in the same sharp tone.

I sat there,

watching the air thicken

with shouts

that no one seemed to notice

anymore.

Even the children

have learned it now

how to shout

to be heard,

how to throw words

like stones.

Outside these walls

they are quiet,

polite,

smiling at strangers.

But here,

the noise is the language

they speak to each other.

I kept thinking:

this is what they are learning.

This is the shape

their hearts are taking.

A childhood

built on volume,

not on listening.

And I wondered

about my own quiet childhood

the silences I carried,

the things I never said.

Was my silence

any gentler?

Or just another way

to disappear?

Parents believe

they are building strength.

They have lived longer,

seen more storms.

So they raise their voices

to protect,

to correct,

to make sure the child

survives the world.

But what if

the loudest thing

the child remembers

is the anger meant to save them?

I thought of the boy

growing tall,

marrying,

having his own children.

Will he hear his own voice

and flinch?

Will he shout

because that’s what love sounded like once?

Islam and even humanity says

something softer:

sit close.

Speak gently.

Let the child feel

the warmth of your gaze

before the weight of your words.

A child

deserves

to be met with love

first

not instruction,

not correction,

but love.

That love

is the courage

they carry into the world.

Not the echo of shouts.

I left after five days.

The house stayed behind.

But the questions

followed me home.

How much of what we do

to “help” becomes the thing

that hurts longest?

And how do I make sure

my own voice

never becomes

someone else’s scar?