I love my room, where the only voices ushered in are those of my parents and sometimes screaming siblings; and, when I’m good, I can hear the voices of the sea.
Long ago, strangers used to hum old lullabies to me. My mother won’t sing them, and I can’t, so I just hum them and hope I’m on-tune.
Between the sea-sighs and my own humming, I’m able to get to sleep at night; but, when I’m bad, I go to a time-out room that has no windows and instead a door with a heavy lock. It’s those times when I cry myself to sleep.
I haven’t been good in months.