I'm the only one in my family who is deaf, and there are still

Host:
The morning was soft, the kind of morning that feels like a whisper before the world begins speaking. The sunlight moved slowly through the curtains, painting the living room in faint bands of gold and shadow. A small apartment, quiet except for the clink of coffee spoons, the rustle of newspapers, and the faraway hum of the city awakening.

Jack sat on the couch, a laptop open on his knees, his fingers still for a moment as he stared at the screen. Jeeny, barefoot, was sitting on the floor near the window, her hair pulled back, a soft light falling across her face as she sketched absentmindedly in a notebook.

On the table between them lay a single quote, handwritten on a slip of paper, tucked under a mug:

“I’m the only one in my family who is deaf, and there are still conversations that go around me that I miss out on. And I ask what’s going on, and I have to ask to be included. But I’m not going to be sad about it. I don’t live in sad isolation. It’s just a situation I’m used to.” – Marlee Matlin

Jeeny:
(reading the quote aloud slowly, her voice quiet, reverent)
Marlee Matlin said that. Isn’t it extraordinary? There’s such serenity in her words—no self-pity, no resentment. Just acceptance.

Jack:
(without looking up)
Acceptance, yeah. Or resignation. Depends on how you frame it.

Host:
He leaned back, his gray eyes catching the light, the faintest trace of a frown between his brows. His coffee had gone cold, untouched. The city’s hum pressed faintly against the windows, a quiet pulse beneath their silence.

Jeeny:
No, not resignation. It’s strength. She’s saying she won’t let her difference become her sadness. That’s not giving up—it’s choosing joy anyway.

Jack:
(shuts the laptop, sighs)
Choosing joy. That’s a pretty phrase. But it makes it sound simple, like flipping a switch.

Jeeny:
It’s not simple, Jack. That’s why it’s powerful. You think she hasn’t fought for that serenity? Every day?

Jack:
(gruffly)
Maybe. Or maybe she’s just tired of explaining herself to a world that refuses to listen. Sometimes “acceptance” is just another word for “exhaustion.”

Jeeny:
(staring at him)
You don’t really believe that.

Host:
The light shifted, a slow crawl across the floor, warming the edges of the room. Outside, a pigeon cooed from the balcony rail, breaking the fragile stillness.

Jeeny:
You always see the wound first. She’s not saying she’s fine with being left out—she’s saying she’s learned to live with it. That’s a different kind of strength.

Jack:
(softly)
Maybe I just don’t believe in “learning to live with it.” I think we adapt because we have to, not because we’ve made peace.

Jeeny:
(leans forward, eyes intent)
But isn’t that what life is—adapting until it becomes peace?

Jack:
That sounds poetic, Jeeny. But there’s nothing peaceful about being on the outside looking in.

Jeeny:
You’ve never really known what that’s like.

Jack:
(bristles slightly)
You think not?

Jeeny:
(gently, almost tenderly)
No, Jack. You’ve chosen to be outside. That’s different from being born there.

Host:
The air thickened. Jack’s jaw tightened; his eyes flicked away, landing on the faint reflection of the city in the window. The light made him look older—like a man who had seen too many rooms filled with conversation he didn’t enter.

Jack:
You make it sound like exclusion has virtue.

Jeeny:
Not virtue—meaning. Pain without meaning is unbearable. But when you choose to see the world differently, it becomes its own kind of beauty.

Jack:
You think she’d call it beautiful? Being left out of her own family’s conversations?

Jeeny:
I think she’d call it life. Not perfect, not fair—but hers.

Host:
The sunlight grew brighter, touching the edge of her sketchpad. On the page, lines had formed without her noticing—a portrait of a woman’s face, calm, eyes slightly turned away, lips parted as if listening to something beyond sound.

Jack:
(watching her draw)
You really admire her, don’t you?

Jeeny:
Of course. She speaks about silence like it’s another language instead of a limitation.

Jack:
(quietly)
Maybe that’s what makes her brave.

Jeeny:
Bravery isn’t always loud, Jack. Sometimes it’s the quiet decision not to be bitter.

Host:
A soft breeze slipped through the half-open window, carrying the smell of wet pavement and jasmine. The curtain stirred, a faint rustle like a sigh.

Jack:
You know, I envy that kind of peace. I’ve never known how to stop resenting what I’ve missed.

Jeeny:
Then maybe you’ve confused missing out with being forgotten. They’re not the same thing.

Jack:
(after a pause)
And what do you think the difference is?

Jeeny:
Being forgotten means no one remembers you. Missing out means there’s still something worth remembering.

Host:
He stared at her for a long moment, then let out a low, uneasy laugh. The sound was rough, but not cold—like an old door opening for the first time in years.

Jack:
You always make pain sound poetic.

Jeeny:
Pain is poetic, Jack. It’s just that most people never learn how to translate it.

Jack:
(looking back at the quote)
So what, then? She’s translated her isolation into resilience?

Jeeny:
Exactly. She’s turned being left out into an art of belonging anyway.

Host:
Outside, the morning light had climbed higher, washing the room in warmth. The shadows that had stretched long across the floor now folded inward, retreating toward the walls.

Jack:
You think I could ever do that?

Jeeny:
You already do, in your way. You just call it detachment instead of peace.

Jack:
(smirking faintly)
And you call it grace instead of denial.

Jeeny:
(smiles)
Maybe they’re both the same thing—two different names for surviving.

Host:
A moment passed—quiet, human, unhurried. The city outside was louder now—cars, footsteps, voices—yet the room felt untouched, as if wrapped in the stillness of understanding.

Jack:
(softly)
You know, I think Marlee’s right. There’s dignity in not turning your difference into a tragedy.

Jeeny:
That’s the only kind of dignity that matters.

Jack:
(leans back, his tone softer now)
She doesn’t deny her silence—she just refuses to let it define her.

Jeeny:
Exactly. That’s not sadness. That’s strength disguised as calm.

Host:
Jeeny’s fingers brushed the edge of the paper with the quote, and she smiled. The room was full of light now, every corner touched by warmth.

Jeeny:
Maybe that’s the lesson, Jack—some people live surrounded by noise and still feel isolated. Others live in silence and never feel alone.

Jack:
(nods slowly)
Maybe the real conversation is the one you have with yourself—and she’s just learned how to listen better than the rest of us.

Host:
They sat quietly for a while, the light around them like a benediction, the city’s murmur growing distant, the silence between them not empty, but full—alive, like a heartbeat.

A faint smile crossed Jeeny’s lips as she looked up from her sketch.

Jeeny:
You know, I think peace sounds like that. Not loud. Not triumphant. Just—steady.

Jack:
(smiling faintly)
Like someone who’s learned to hear the world in their own way.

Host:
And in that moment, as the sunlight spilled like gold dust across the floor, it was clear—
that strength doesn’t always come from shouting,
and understanding doesn’t always need words.

Sometimes,
it comes quietly,
from the ones who have learned to live
in the beautiful music of silence.