Six o’clock, right after we finish supper, is the quiet hour. None of us can speak until seven. Mom can’t sing along to the music on the old record player. Dad can’t read his books out loud, the only way he knows how to read them. I can’t laugh. When I cry, I have to do it silently. The quiet hour happens every day. I don’t know why we do it and I’ve never had the voice to ask.

Even the dog knows not to bark or whine. I sit on the couch with him at my feet, watching the sun change the shadows on the wall, until everything is dark and my parents find their voices again in the next room. Mom is always the first one to make noise. Her voice lights the room on fire, a warbled rendition of Johnny Cash or Dolly Parton. Dad reads the next line of his book out loud, “He walked into the room and smiled.” The dog howls.

I watch the wall. I do not speak. To me, all the hours of all the days are the quiet hour. I don’t know why. I have so much to say. My mouth forms the words but I make no sound.

I walk into the next room and smile.