Regret Comes After Silence
Ruby · Completed · 6.3k Words
Introduction
He claimed to be allergic to my voice—hearing me talk gave him headaches, ringing ears, made his whole body ache.
To change my voice, I underwent four vocal cord surgeries. My voice became hoarse, rough as sandpaper scraping concrete. But no matter how hard I tried, he still clutched his ears in pain.
For eight years, I blamed myself. I thought I was the one dragging him down.
Until our anniversary, when our daughter casually yanked off his "hearing aid" and tossed it on the couch.
I picked it up and put it in my ear. What I heard was my cousin Freya's flirtatious voice, and his tender response.
That moment, I finally understood—
No matter what I did, all this man ever wanted from me was silence.
Chapter 1
Sloane's POV
Eight years of marriage. Fluent in seven languages. Yet I never dared speak a word in front of my husband.
He was allergic to my voice. Whenever I spoke, he'd get headaches, ear ringing, full-body misery. My cousin Freya called it a rare hyperacusis condition. Incurable, she said.
I had four surgeries on my vocal cords trying to fix it. Nothing worked. He still winced every time.
The day I gave birth, I was in labor for sixteen hours. I bit clean through a pillowcase. I didn't make a sound.
I spent eight years blaming myself for ruining his life.
Then, on our eighth wedding anniversary, I heard my daughter ask her father: "Daddy, can I pretend to be allergic to Mom's voice too?"
I was in the kitchen prepping dinner — a surprise for Alaric — when the front door opened.
Poppy's voice came tumbling in ahead of her footsteps. "Daddy, you've been talking to Freya the whole drive home."
She reached up and plucked the hearing aid from Alaric's ear, tossed it on the couch like it was nothing.
"Can I do what you do?" She dragged him toward the sofa, all whining and clinging. "Pretend I'm allergic to her voice? That way I can talk to Freya all I want and just ignore her."
Alaric laughed softly and ruffled her hair. "Can't exactly inherit a fake condition, baby. If you're not careful, Mom might figure it out."
"She won't." Poppy made a dismissive sound. "She's too dumb."
Something locked around my chest and wouldn't let go.
Every year, I'd taken Poppy to Freya's clinic for hearing tests. Every year, Freya told me her results were perfectly normal. Every year, I'd quietly exhaled with relief that my daughter hadn't inherited his condition.
Now I understood. The only person who never figured anything out — was me.
After they went to their rooms, I bent down and picked up the hearing aid. Put it in my own ear.
Freya's voice first, soft and teasing: "Last night you said my voice drives you crazy... in all the right ways."
Then Alaric's, low and warm: "That's because you're moaning my name. Not nagging me."
Whatever was left inside me went cold.
At dinner, I noticed Poppy's nails — pink ombre, tiny rhinestones. For the first time in eight years, I spoke in front of Alaric.
"Poppy. No manicures."
My voice came out wrecked. I barely recognized it — too many surgeries, too many years of silence.
Alaric stiffened almost imperceptibly. Poppy set down her fork, rubbed her ear, and scrunched her face in exaggerated pain.
"Mommy... when you talk, my head starts buzzing." Her eyes went wide and wounded. "Do I have what Daddy has? Am I allergic to your voice too?"
If I hadn't already known the truth, I might have panicked. Rushed her to the clinic that same night. But now I just felt something close to amusement. She was eight years old and already a better actor than I'd ever been a wife.
"You're getting the manicure removed," I said. "And I'm docking this week's allowance."
The performance collapsed immediately. Poppy's face twisted with genuine irritation and she slapped her hands over her ears.
"Your voice is so annoying! Can you please just stop talking!"
"My voice sounds like this because of your father," I said evenly. "As for your ears — have him take you to a doctor. I'm not available."
I'd once interpreted simultaneously across seven languages at international conferences, never missing a beat. Now a single sentence felt like dragging gravel through my throat. All of it traced back to the same source: years of swallowing my voice so I wouldn't have to watch Alaric's face contort in theatrical suffering.
Right on cue, he pressed two fingers to his temple. Pained. Apologetic.
"Sloane, I'm sorry... hearing you again, it's starting up."
"Don't apologize. I'm the one who's been a burden all these years. If Poppy really did inherit it, please don't blame yourself."
Poppy immediately curled into his side, gazing up at him with heartbroken devotion. "Poor Daddy."
Father and daughter. Perfectly rehearsed.
I watched them and felt, strangely, like laughing.
"Alaric." I set down my glass. My voice was quiet. "Eight years, and you never adjusted to my voice. There's only one explanation for that." I paused. "Let's get a divorce."
He froze.
Poppy didn't.
Her face lit up. She nearly launched herself out of her chair, clapping both hands together.
"Are you serious?! Yes! I have to tell Freya right now!"
Before anyone could respond, the front door's keypad gave its familiar chime. Freya walked in carrying a bunch of white tulips.
Poppy didn't even wait. She sprinted across the room and threw her arms around Freya's waist.
"Freya! Good news! Mom just said she's divorcing Daddy!"
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