The Silence of a Child's Obedience

Mother and father rule with an iron fist, but they claim it's because they care. Their love is conditional, suffocating. Live a life of absolute obedience, isolated from the world. Water is the only thing you can have without permission. Never dare ask for food, or you'll be branded greedy. Eat when they say, what they say.

When speaking to them, stand at attention, hands behind your back. Beg for a glass of soda with a strained smile: "Mother, father, may I please have a glass of soda?" Wait for their approval, a curt yes or no. If they ignore you, it's a no.

At dinner, hold out your plate like a prisoner, and mother will deign to give you a meager serving of overcooked rice and ground beef. If you're lucky, you might get some mushy pasta, but never complain. Thank mother with a forced smile: "Looks tasty as always, mother, thank you."

Wash the dishes in silence, lest father's anger erupt. "This isn't playtime, keep your mouths shut and clean!" "Yes, father, we apologize, father." And when you're done, stand by the sink, hands still wet, waiting for mother's inspection, hoping you've met her impossible standards.If a single spot remains, or a dish isn't perfectly dry, feel the weight of their disappointment, the sting of their words. "You're not trying hard enough." "You're lazy." "You're not worthy of love."

So if you do all of this, if you surrender completely, they might, just might, love you. But only as much as they're capable of loving, which is barely enough to keep you alive. You'll be a shadow of a person, a mere specter of your former self, but they'll call it love. They'll say it's enough. And you'll believe them, because that's what you've been trained to do.

You'll keep obeying, keep surrendering, until there's nothing left of you but a hollow shell, a mere whisper of a soul. And that's when they'll love you, with all the passion and warmth of a cold, dead star.

So Remember, when mother and father speak...you Obey.