The boy sat on the floor, legs crossed, as his pajamas made of flour sack dragged on the wood. [1]
His hands covered his ears, but that never truly worked. The grown-up voices always found a way in like smoke under a door.
"You always do this!" a woman's voice snapped. She was blurry in the kitchen doorway. "You always drink and pretend it's the world's fault that we're in this situation."
The sound of a glass bottle breaking resonated in the small house, causing the woman to scream.
"It is the world's fault," a man muttered, then louder, "You think this is what I wanted? You think this life is some kind of gift?"
"I gave up everything," his mom said. "I had plans. Do you remember that? Of course, you don't. You were too busy playing pretend with your bar gigs and your empty promises."
The boy pressed his palms harder against his ears. But the sound tunneled in any way. Their words echoed like they were underwater.
"We should've never had a kid."
