The Echo Between Us

The ticking of the clock was deafening in the stillness of the room. Leila sat on the edge of the couch, hands clasped around a chipped mug of cold tea, her eyes darting toward the kitchen where her mother scrubbed an already-clean countertop. Each stroke of the sponge, each shift of a dish in the rack, felt like a hammer against the quiet, pounding her chest with words unspoken.

“Ma?” Leila’s voice quivered, breaking the silence. “Are you… mad at me?”

Her mother paused but didn’t turn around. The sponge slowed, the sound of water dripping into the sink filling the air between them.

“No,” her mother replied after what felt like a century, her voice so faint that Leila wondered if she had imagined it.

“Then why—” Leila swallowed the knot in her throat. “Why won’t you just talk to me?”

The sponge hit the counter with a wet smack as her mother finally faced her, arms crossed. Her eyes were dark, unreadable, and for a moment, Leila felt as if she were a child again, being scolded for coloring outside the lines. But her mother didn’t say a word. She just stood there, her silence louder than any yelling match they could have had.

“Fine,” Leila muttered, rising to her feet. Her voice grew firmer, bitterness creeping in. “Don’t tell me what’s wrong. Just… keep shutting me out, like always.”

Her mother’s lips parted, but the words didn’t come. They never came.

Leila grabbed her coat and stormed out the door, the cold evening air biting her skin. She walked aimlessly, the rhythmic crunch of gravel beneath her boots offering a cruel comfort.

Why does she always do this? Shut down? Was it something I said? Something I did?

Leila’s thoughts ran in circles, chasing answers that never arrived.

Hours later, she returned home. The house was dark except for the dim glow of the kitchen light. Her mother was still there, sitting at the table with a steaming mug in front of her. She looked up as Leila entered, her expression unreadable.

For a moment, they just stared at each other, the tension thick like fog. Then, her mother sighed—a sound so soft it barely broke the silence.

“You remind me of your father,” she said finally, her voice low. “Always asking questions. Always wanting answers.”

Leila froze, the words taking a moment to sink in. “Is that… a bad thing?”

Her mother looked down at the mug in her hands. “No. But it’s hard. Your father wanted to fix everything. Even things that couldn’t be fixed. He never knew when to stop trying.” Her voice cracked, and she swallowed hard, gripping the mug as if it might shatter.

Leila stepped closer, her anger softening into something fragile. “And me? Am I trying too hard?”

Her mother glanced up, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “No, Leila. You’re trying just enough. It’s me… I don’t know how to try anymore.”

The admission was like a door creaking open, letting a sliver of light through. It wasn’t much, but it was enough.

Leila sat down across from her mother, the quiet between them shifting—less of a wall, more of a bridge. There were still so many things left unsaid, so many spaces to fill. But for the first time in a long time, Leila felt like they weren’t drowning in the silence. They were learning how to listen.