Around the Glass

It started with laughter.

I sat on the stairs by the window, my dolls lined up neatly beside me. Soft, drizzling rain tapped against the glass. I was hungry, waiting for dinner. I made little squeaky voices for my tiny friends, telling them how my day went. They nodded and clapped, and sometimes even shook their heads at my stories.

I could hear my parents in the kitchen—the clinking of pans, the sizzling of oil, and my Mom laughing at something my Dad said. For a while, it sounded just like every other night.

Then the tone changed.

“I told you not to buy that,” my Dad said. His voice was still calm, but it carried that sound—the same one he uses when I’ve done something wrong.

“It wasn’t even expensive,” my Mom replied, and something hit the counter louder than it needed to.

Their words sounded sharp, and I looked down at my small army of toys, frozen mid-play. My giggles quieted. 

My Dad laughed once—not the funny kind. “The bills don’t pay themselves, Lorraine.”

I froze. 

“I know that! You think I don’t?” she snapped. “But God forbid we have something nice once in a while.” 

Outside, the drizzle thudded harder on the roof, each drop landing heavier than the last.

“Maybe you’re forgetting,” he said, louder now. “I’m the one who has to fix things when we run short. 

“Oh, how could I possibly forget when you remind me everyday? Because I don’t do anything, huh? Because I just sit here all day?”

I hugged my dolls closer and held my breath, bracing myself. Their voices bounced off the walls like always—loud, fast, familiar. But then something metal hit the counter. Then another plate. Then came the crash—glass breaking, sharp and sudden. I flinched. My heart beat loud in my ears.

I wanted to cover my ears, but I didn’t. I wanted to hear when it would stop. My dolls stared back at me, their eyes wide and waiting.

More shouting—words I couldn’t follow, ones I wasn’t supposed to know. More glass. More plates. Something flew; I couldn’t see, but I heard it hit the wall with a heavy thud. The rain matched them—growing louder, angrier, and pounding the roof.

Then came hard, fast footsteps, the scrape of the umbrella from the rack, and the door slammed. 

The sound shook the house.

After that, there was only the broom—the soft, scratchy drag of it across the floor. Broken pieces clinked into the trash. I could imagine my mother’s face: her eyes narrowed, jaw tight, the broom moving too quickly. 

The rain softened, a quiet pattering. I didn’t move. I just sat there.

After what felt like forever, the door opened again—the cool air slipping briefly into the house before it was shut out. My dad’s steps came back—slower now. The sweeping stopped. The air felt thick.

“You done cleaning?” he said.

“Do I look done?” she muttered, quiet but sharp. The faucet turned on. Water ran.

Finally, after a while, she said, “Call her for dinner.”

He hesitated. “There’s no more glass?” 

“What do you think? I cleaned it all up.”

“You might’ve missed some.”

“I’m not stupid,” she muttered.

I waited for the yelling to start again, but it didn’t. Just a breath. Then he called my name.

I stood up, patting my dolls on the head, telling them all to wait. When I peeked into the kitchen, it looked almost normal—except for the trash bin filled with broken pieces, some with familiar patterns. My mother’s hands were red. My father was already sitting, arms crossed, staring at the table.

“Sit down,” she said. Not soft, but not angry either.

I climbed into my chair. Steam rose from the rice, and the smell of chicken was warm and familiar. The floor was still a little damp. Nobody spoke for a while. Just the soft clatter of tableware being set on the table, the fan spinning steadily.

I was hungry—really hungry—so I said so. 

Dad scooped rice onto my Mom’s plate and muttered under his breath, “Maybe next time we’ll just eat around the glass,” 

Mom laughed quietly. 

I laughed too—though I didn’t really know why. My stomach felt funny. And I couldn’t help noticing that my favorite bowl wasn’t the one set in front of me at the table.

I shook my shoulders and took a bite.

Halfway through the meal, my Mom coughed. My Dad poured her water and called her “Bhe” softly, his voice drifting across the dining room.

When I finished eating, I pushed back my chair and went back to the stairs, where my dolls were waiting. I sat down, reshuffling and lining them up neatly once more. 

From the kitchen, I could hear my parents laughing again. 

When I looked out the window, the sky was clear.