Every child senses, with all the horse sense that's in him, that

Host: The evening light hung low, suspended in that tender hour when day hesitates to become night. The living room was quiet except for the steady hum of an old floor fan and the slow ticking of a mantel clock that had outlived generations. A storm was gathering beyond the window — clouds heavy, like withheld confessions.

The air smelled of dust, rain, and memory.

At the edge of the worn sofa, Jack sat leaning forward, elbows on his knees, staring into the half-empty glass of whisky resting on the table. Across from him, Jeeny was perched in an armchair — small, still, her fingers tracing the rim of a teacup that had long gone cold. Between them, the silence was not peace — it was something sharper, like air waiting for lightning.

Jeeny: (softly) “Benjamin Spock once said, ‘Every child senses, with all the horse sense that’s in him, that any parent is angry inside when children misbehave, and they dread more the anger that is rarely or never expressed openly, wondering how awful it might be.’”

Jack: (smirking bitterly) “So even silence becomes a weapon, huh?”

Jeeny: “Sometimes silence is louder than shouting.”

Jack: “Or more cruel.”

Host: The wind outside picked up, brushing the curtains aside, letting a flash of lightning spill across the room. For a moment, Jack’s face looked older, lined not just by years but by something heavier — a guilt that had learned to sit comfortably.

Jeeny: “You think he’s right?”

Jack: “About parents? Sure. Kids can smell anger like smoke. You don’t have to yell — they just know. It hangs in the air, seeps into their bones.”

Jeeny: “Because they’re still close to innocence. They read the heart before the words.”

Jack: “And when the heart’s angry?”

Jeeny: “Then they learn to fear it.”

Host: A rumble of thunder rolled through the distance — long, patient, inevitable. The storm was not far.

Jack: “My old man never raised his voice. Never hit me either. But he had this… look. When I screwed up, he’d just go quiet. Wouldn’t speak for hours. Days, sometimes. That silence — it was worse than punishment. You start imagining the things he could say, the things he might do.”

Jeeny: (softly) “That’s exactly what Spock meant.”

Jack: (nodding) “Yeah. The dread of the unsaid. You fill in the blanks yourself. And what your imagination invents is always worse than the truth.”

Host: The rain began, slow at first, tapping against the glass like hesitant fingers. Then faster, heavier, until the room felt wrapped in sound — a cocoon of storm and introspection.

Jeeny: “Did you ever talk to him about it? After?”

Jack: “No. Men like him — they don’t talk. They just hand you the silence, and you learn to pass it down like inheritance.”

Jeeny: “And did you?”

Jack: (a pause) “Yeah. Once. With my own son. He crashed my car when he was seventeen. I didn’t yell. Didn’t even scold. I just stood there, looking at him. He couldn’t meet my eyes. I thought I was being composed — mature. But I could see it in him — the fear. The same look I used to have.”

Jeeny: “You saw yourself reflected in him.”

Jack: “And I hated it. Because I realized I’d become the silence I grew up fearing.”

Host: The light flickered, the bulb humming weakly before steadying again. The storm outside was at its height now — wild but oddly cleansing.

Jeeny: “Maybe anger isn’t the danger, Jack. Maybe it’s repression. The pretending. When we hide it, kids imagine monsters bigger than the truth.”

Jack: “So what, we just explode instead?”

Jeeny: “No. We express. There’s a difference. Anger named becomes human. Anger buried becomes myth.”

Host: Her voice carried through the thunder, calm and deliberate. Jack looked at her — really looked. The gentleness in her face was not softness; it was discipline, the kind that comes from having faced her own storms.

Jack: “You ever see that kind of silence growing up?”

Jeeny: (quietly) “Every day. My mother had a quiet that could freeze a room. She never hit me either, but I’d rather she had. I remember knocking over her vase once — a cheap one, but she loved it. She just stared at me for a moment, then walked away. No words. No anger. Just absence. I cried for hours because I thought I’d lost her.”

Jack: “You hadn’t.”

Jeeny: “I know that now. But as a child, silence felt like exile.”

Host: The rain softened, becoming more rhythmic, as though the world was listening.

Jack: “You think parents mean to do that?”

Jeeny: “No. They think they’re protecting their children from their worst selves. But children don’t need perfection. They need honesty.”

Jack: “Honesty’s messy.”

Jeeny: “So is love.”

Host: The clock ticked louder, each second like a pulse — steady, grounding.

Jeeny: “Spock understood something most people forget — fear grows in the dark. A parent’s silence becomes a mirror, and children fill it with monsters.”

Jack: “And then those children grow up and start talking to their own kids like they’re trying to correct ghosts.”

Jeeny: (nodding) “Exactly. Healing means breaking the cycle. Speaking the truth, even when your voice shakes.”

Host: The rain began to ease, turning to mist. The world beyond the window softened, blurred. The air inside felt lighter now — like something had exhaled.

Jack: (after a long pause) “You know, I called my son last week. First time in months. We didn’t talk long. But I told him I missed him.”

Jeeny: “And?”

Jack: “He said, ‘I know, Dad.’ Just that. No anger. No silence.”

Jeeny: (smiling gently) “Then that’s your storm finally breaking.”

Host: Outside, the clouds began to part, revealing a faint line of pale silver moonlight. It fell through the window, touching Jack’s face. He leaned back, eyes distant but soft.

Jack: “Maybe silence isn’t the enemy. Maybe it’s the space we need before we learn how to speak again.”

Jeeny: “Yes. But only if we promise not to live there.”

Host: The thunder faded, leaving the sound of dripping rain from the eaves — slow, measured, like forgiveness learning its rhythm.

And in that quiet, Benjamin Spock’s words echoed — not as doctrine, but as understanding:

That children read our emotions more truthfully than we do,
that anger unspoken becomes fear unending,
and that sometimes, the gentlest form of love
is the courage to say, “I’m angry, but I’m still here.”

Host: The storm moved on. The clock kept ticking.

Jack poured the last of his drink into the sink, the amber liquid disappearing down the drain.

Jeeny: “You did good, Jack.”

Jack: (half-smiling) “Didn’t do much.”

Jeeny: “You did enough. You spoke.”

Host: The moonlight brightened, chasing the last of the shadows from the room.

And for the first time in a long time,
the silence between them wasn’t heavy.
It was simply — human.