The room they use for "family calls" has glass walls.
Not soundproof. Just visible.
Everything inside it is meant to be seen—from the outside, from the corridor, from whoever happens to pass by. The chairs face the screen at a slight angle, so the person sitting is always half-exposed, profile and posture on display. Ira notices this as soon as she's led in. Notices how the glass reflects her back at herself. Notices how there's nowhere to hide her hands.
She sits with her feet tucked under the chair, ankles crossed tight, like anchoring herself might keep her steady. Her hands are folded in her lap, fingers pressed together so firmly her knuckles ache. The pain is familiar. Useful. Something she can control.
A woman stands a few steps away, back turned, shuffling papers that don't need organizing. She pretends to be busy. She isn't. Her reflection in the glass gives her away—eyes angled toward the screen, ears tuned to every word.
The screen flickers once.
Then her mother appears.
Perfect hair. Soft makeup. The kind of composed calm that looks gentle until you know what it costs. Her smile forms automatically, practiced, smooth. It never reaches her eyes.
"You embarrassed me," her mother says.
Not raised. Not sharp. Calm. The way you state a fact you expect to be accepted.
Ira inhales slowly, carefully, like she's measuring how much air she's allowed to take. "You said I agreed," she says. "I didn't."
"You should have," her mother replies without hesitation. "Those people were important."
"They were wrong," Ira says.
Her voice is quieter this time. Not weaker—just contained.
Her mother's smile tightens. Sharpens at the corners. "You don't understand how things work yet."
"I understand," Ira says. "You just didn't ask me."
The silence that follows is thick. Deliberate. Her mother lets it stretch, lets it press. The woman by the wall stills completely now, no longer bothering with the papers.
"I sent you there so you'd calm down," her mother says finally. "So you'd remember your place."
Ira swallows. Her throat feels dry. "I didn't shout."
"That's not the point," her mother replies. "You challenged me."
The words land heavier than shouting ever could.
The screen goes black before Ira can respond.
No goodbye. No closing remark. Just absence.
Ira doesn't cry.
She stares at the dark screen, at her own reflection staring back at her from the glass. Notices how small she looks inside the frame. How easy it would be to overlook her if you weren't already searching.
The woman clears her throat. "You're done."
Ira stands. Her legs feel unsteady, but she doesn't let it show. She walks out slowly, head high. It's a habit she's learned—don't look hurt where people can see. Don't give them the satisfaction of knowing it landed.
The corridor outside feels longer than before.
As she passes one of the offices, she notices the door is half-open.
She hears a voice. Male. Sharp. Unfiltered.
"He doesn't speak because he's hiding something," the man says. "That's what his father thinks."
Ira stops.
Her body reacts before her mind does. Feet still. Breath shallow.
Inside the room, the boy stands in front of a desk. Hands at his sides. Shoulders squared. His face is blank in the way that takes effort, like holding still against a strong current.
"He refuses to explain himself," the man continues. "No denial. No defense. Just silence."
The boy says nothing.
"Do you know what happens to children who don't cooperate?" the man asks.
"Yes," the boy replies.
The single word is quiet. Clear.
The man pauses. "Then start talking."
The boy lifts his eyes for the first time. Meets the man's gaze directly. "If I talk, I make it worse."
The man scoffs. "For whom?"
"For everyone," the boy says.
The man leans back in his chair, studying him. "Your family says you provoke situations and then withdraw. That you enjoy control."
The boy's jaw tightens. Just once. "I don't enjoy anything."
Another long look.
Then the man sighs. "You'll stay longer."
Outside, Ira steps back before she's noticed.
Her heart is pounding now, fast and loud, but she keeps her breathing even. She walks away at a measured pace, like nothing happened. Like she didn't hear any of it.
They meet later in the corridor, near the turn that leads back to their room.
Neither of them asks how it went.
They don't need to.
In the room, Ira sits on her bed and pulls her knees to her chest, arms wrapping around them instinctively. The position makes her feel smaller, but also held.
"My mother doesn't like when I make her look wrong," she says after a while.
He nods once. No surprise.
"She says I talk too much," Ira continues. "That I make things… difficult."
He sits on his bed, hands resting on his thighs, listening without interrupting.
"My father doesn't notice," she adds. "Unless my mother points me out."
The boy traces a slow line along the seam of the mattress with his finger. "My father notices everything."
She looks at him.
"He waits," he says. "For reactions."
"What kind?"
"Fear. Anger. Apologies." He pauses. "I don't give him any."
She frowns. "Does that help?"
"No," he says. "But neither does talking."
They sit with that truth between them.
Outside, a child screams—sharp, sudden. Someone tells them to stop. The scream cuts off abruptly.
Ira flinches. Her shoulders jump before she can stop them.
He doesn't react. Not outwardly. He has learned which sounds mean danger and which mean nothing.
"My mother says silence is obedience," Ira says softly.
"My father says silence is defiance," he replies.
She lets out a breath that sounds almost like a laugh. Almost. "So we're both wrong at home."
"Yes."
The light in the room shifts as evening settles, the edges of things softening. Shadows stretch along the walls.
Ira lies back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. "If I stop talking completely," she says, "I think I'll disappear."
He watches her from the corner of his eye. "If I start," he says, "I think I'll be punished."
They don't argue. There's nothing to win.
After a while, Ira pushes herself upright again. "Then we do what we said."
"Our rule," he says.
She nods. "We talk when it helps. We don't when it doesn't."
He thinks about it. Then adds, "And we don't force each other."
"Deal," she says.
A quiet agreement. No hands shaken. No smiles. Just understanding.
That night, when the lights go out and the room dims into indistinct shapes, Ira whispers one sentence. About nothing important. Just to hear her own voice exist in the dark.
He listens.
And when she falls silent, he doesn't fill the space.
For the first time, the silence doesn't feel like punishment to either of them.
It feels chosen