Page 9 of The Silence Between

“God, that kid from East Side was so dramatic,” one said, rolling his eyes. “Playing the poverty card for sympathy points.”

“Right? Like, we get it, you're poor. My dad says people just need to work harder instead of looking for handouts.”

My face burned, shame and anger warring in my chest. I wanted to disappear, to never have exposed myself this way.

“You're missing the point,” a third voice interrupted—Ethan's. “He just demolished your theoretical arguments with real-world application.” His tone held an edge I'd never heard before. “Maybe try listening instead of dismissing experiences you don't understand.”

I slipped away before any of them noticed me, Ethan's unexpected defense replaying in my mind as I walked home. The strange warmth it sparked felt dangerous, like hope—and hope was a luxury I couldn't afford.

Three days later, the debate team roster was posted outside room 203. My name was on it.

* * *

It was freezingwhen I got home, my breath visible in the air. Mari had wrapped Sophie and Diego in every blanket we owned, the three of them huddled on the couch like refugees. Her face, when she saw me, crumpled with relief.

“The heat's off,” she said. “I tried calling Mom but she didn't answer.”

“Where are they?” I asked, though I already suspected.

“Mom said she was going to find Dad.” Mari's voice was small. “She promised they'd be back yesterday.”

Two days. They'd been gone for two days, leaving children nine, five, and two years old alone in an unheated apartment in November.

I swallowed the rage that threatened to choke me. “Have you guys eaten today?”

Mari shook her head. “We had cereal for breakfast, but the milk's gone. I didn't know what else to make.”

I checked the kitchen—nearly empty. Half a loaf of bread, a few slices of cheese, one can of beans, a handful of pasta. I made grilled cheese sandwiches, cut them into shapes to make Diego smile, heated the beans to stretch the meal.

After they ate, I ran a bath, the hot water temporarily warming the apartment. I bathed Sophie while Mari helped Diego, then tucked all three into bed together for warmth, piling on every piece of clothing we owned as makeshift blankets.

“Tell us a story,” Diego pleaded, his dark eyes wide. “A good one.”

So I made up a tale about a magical world where families stayed together, where houses were always warm, where food appeared whenever you were hungry, where no one ever had to be afraid. I spun it until their eyelids grew heavy, until Sophie's thumb found her mouth and Diego's breathing deepened into sleep.

Only Mari remained awake, her eyes fixed on mine in the dim light.

“My teacher keeps asking questions,” she whispered once the others were asleep. “About why I miss so much school. About why my homework isn't always done.”

Fear seized my chest. “What did you tell her?”

“That I get sick a lot. That you help me with homework but sometimes we're busy.” She bit her lip. “Leo, if I tell the truth, they'll take us away. They'll separate us.”

I pulled her close, this tiny girl carrying adult worries. “I won't let that happen,” I promised. “We're staying together, no matter what.”

Her tears soaked through my shirt as she finally allowed herself to cry, her small body shaking with the force of sobs she'd been holding back for who knew how long. I held her until she cried herself to sleep, my own eyes burning with exhaustion and unshed tears.

The door opened around midnight. Mom and Dad stumbled in, bringing cold air and the sickly-sweet smell of unwashed bodies and something chemical I couldn't name. They hadn't brought food, or explanations, or apologies—just a frenetic energy that threatened to wake the children.

I extracted myself carefully from Mari's grip and met them in the kitchen, closing the bedroom door behind me.

“Where have you been?” I kept my voice low, but couldn't mask the anger. “The heat's off. The kids haven't eaten properly in days.”

Mom's eyes couldn't seem to focus on my face. “Mijo, don't be angry. We had to... your father needed...”

“Pills,” I finished for her. “You needed pills. More than you needed to take care of your children.”

Dad stepped toward me, his movements jerky and unpredictable. “Don't talk to your mother like that. Show some goddamn respect.”

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