Eggshells

I could tell you the difference between a cupboard closed and a cupboard slammed before I could tie my own shoes.

That’s what they don’t put in the parenting books. The bit about how children aren’t stupid. They’re watching. They’re always watching. And the ones who grow up in houses where the weather changes without warning become the best meteorologists you’ve ever met.

I knew by the sound of the key in the lock. The speed of it. Whether it turned smoothly or jabbed. I knew by the gap between the front door closing and the first words spoken. A long gap meant trouble. A short gap meant it might be alright. Silence meant get to your room and find something quiet to do.

My sister didn’t have the same radar. She’d walk into rooms mid-storm and ask what was for tea. I’d be in the corner, already small, already scanning, already calculating the safest route from the sofa to the stairs.

People call it anxiety now. Give it a name and a leaflet and a waiting list. Back then it was just being good. Being well-behaved. Being the easy one.

I wasn’t easy. I was terrified. There’s a difference, but from the outside they look exactly the same.

The eggshells weren’t on the floor. They were in my chest. Every conversation was a crossing. Every silence was a question. Every raised voice was a rehearsal for something worse that might or might not come.

I’m thirty-nine now and I still can’t sit with my back to a door.

I still flinch when someone puts a mug down too hard.

Some skills you learn as a child never leave. Even when you don’t need them any more. Especially when you don’t need them any more.

They just sit there. Quietly. Waiting. Like I used to.