They’re in the kitchen, talking. Probably sitting around the table. I can’t be sure because I’m in my bedroom, down the hall. But I can tell they aren’t in the living room because of the way their voices sound.
I’m being punished. Didn’t want to finish my dinner. Even if I had the three bites they told me too.
Now they’re arguing. Probably about me because they’re trying to keep their voices down. They know I listen. They keep things from me. Say I’m too young to understand. And I guess I am, because I don’t know why they’re yelling.