This House Never Is Quiet

am afraid. Not of things, not of people — of everything. Not the kind of fear that comes suddenly and passes, but a fear that has settled into my bones, grown roots there, and refuses to leave. I am afraid of waking up. Afraid of sleeping. Afraid of the hours in between. Afraid of this life that feels sealed shut — no door forward, no door back. Only walls. And I have been hitting these walls for years.

When your husband is dead, when money runs out before the month does, when the house you live in feels more like a trap than shelter, hope becomes a word other people use. People who have not lived like this. People who still believe life bends if you push hard enough. I no longer believe that. I believe life crushes quietly, slowly, until there is nothing left that even remembers what it was to stand upright.

They say humans survive on hope. But what if hope is a luxury you cannot afford? I don’t know who “they” are. I only know that I survive on habit. On breathing because the body insists. On waking because sleep ends whether I want it to or not. Hope feels like a cruel joke told by people who will never have to live inside my head.

Sometimes I think I will end up in a psychiatric hospital myself. Not because I scream or break things, but because my mind is permanently soaked in sorrow. Even when I try to think of something else — anything else — it is as if an invisible wall rises inside me. I hit it every time. I cannot pass. Any hopeful thought feels suspicious, almost dangerous. As if believing in it would invite a greater disappointment. So I learned to stop hoping. It was easier that way.

Maybe everyone is like this. Or maybe it’s just me. Luck, they say, favors the fortunate. For people like us — unlucky, exhausted, cornered — luck is just another story we were never meant to live.

“Mom? Mom, where are you? Why aren’t you answering?”

My daughter’s voice reaches me from somewhere in the house. She is here, physically present, but her presence offers little comfort. Respect, care, gentleness — those are luxuries we stopped expecting long ago.

Around me, I see women my age watching their children grow, marry, build lives, give them grandchildren. Their exhaustion has meaning. Mine feels pointless. A violent kick against the door. Then another. Then the door flies open and slams against the wall. I exhale sharply, already angry, already defeated. My sick daughter stands there, eyes sharp, restless, her presence filling the room like a storm.

“What is wrong with you?” I snap. “What do you want now that you’ve turned the whole house upside down?”

“Why isn’t there lunch?”

The words ignite something ugly inside me. Something I am ashamed of, but no longer capable of controlling.

“Because a sick person should die quietly,” I say with a bitter smile, “not ruin the lives of everyone around her. Why should I cook for you at all?”

“I’m hungry!”

“Get out. I wish I had never given birth to you. I wish I had been barren. Get out of my sight.” She curses me — a word so ugly it makes my skin crawl. But I don’t flinch. I’ve heard worse. From her. From myself.

She curses me and slams the door so hard the walls tremble. I stand there, shaking, not from fear but from the weight of my own cruelty. And yet—I cannot tolerate her. I simply cannot. And that admission—that I cannot love my own child—is the heaviest thing I carry.

She fights with furniture, doors, shadows. She talks loudly to herself, argues with invisible enemies, accuses people who do not exist. Paranoia and schizophrenia have eaten her from the inside. She believes everyone is after her, that danger hides in every corner. And sometimes, I think she is right. Not about the danger—but about the corners. They are everywhere.

I’ve told her a thousand times, sometimes gently, sometimes cruelly: “Who do you think you are? The president’s daughter? Why would anyone care enough to harm you?” But illness has hollowed her mind. This house has no peace. Only shouting, breaking glass, smashed utensils, torn scarves, scratched books. Once, she tried to burn something in the kitchen. Smoke filled the house while neighbors gathered outside, whispering.

“I have no family! No friends! No one!” she screams during her episodes. “Shut up! You’re driving me insane!” And I think: you already have. We both have.

Who knows what hallucination has claimed her this time.

My other daughter and I are afraid to leave her alone. She has destroyed most of my belongings. She slashed her sister’s books with a knife, scratching out titles and authors as if erasing knowledge could quiet her mind. She eats compulsively, drinks endless tea, opens the refrigerator every few minutes and forgets to close it. She leaves the water running. She lives in chaos, and we live inside it with her. There is no escape. Only different rooms of the same nightmare.

I escape the house whenever I can. The mosque. She house ruins. Quran sessions. Mourning ceremonies. Any place where silence is enforced and suffering is expected. I pray constantly. I make vows finally I don’t know how to keep. I promise God things I cannot deliver. I think He knows. I think He forgives me anyway.

When my husband was alive, we forced her to take medication.

“I’m healthy,” she said.

“You’re the sick ones.”

Now he is gone, and I am alone with the consequences.

Because of her, my younger daughter never married. No one wants a girl whose sister is mentally ill. In this neighborhood, everyone knows. The walls here are thin. Shame travels fast. And it stays longer than guests ever do.

At night, when the house finally grows quiet, fear does not leave me. It grows louder. I lie awake listening for footsteps, for muttering, for sudden screams. I imagine the future as an endless repetition of this present. I imagine dying before her, leaving my other daughter trapped with a sister she did not choose. This fear is not dramatic. It does not announce itself. It simply stays. It does not shout. It breathes. Slowly. Into every quiet moment. And I carry it with me—into every prayer, every breath, every moment I wish I could disappear.

Sometimes she faints. Poor woman—her husband collapses and she calls the emergency line with shaking hands. When he finally regains consciousness, the first thing he says is,

“Who is this? Why is she here?”

I cannot even imagine such a life: trying to save your husband’s life, only to be interrogated afterward for why a stranger is standing in the house.

I hate sound. Every sound. Everything she touches produces a harsh, unbearable noise. Even now, I don’t know what she’s doing with the tablecloth.

There is an illness called misophonia—people who suffer from it are tormented by ordinary sounds—but mine is far worse. I get headaches, earaches, a sharp pain that crawls behind my eyes. Sometimes I press my fingers against my temples, as if I could push the pain out.

“Two eggplants. Bell peppers. Tomatoes.

” My other daughter and I are not even allowed to talk about something as simple as grocery shopping. Because she harasses everyone—the grocer, the baker, the vegetable seller, everyone. Once she picked on the neighbor’s son, a single man, shouting filthy insults at him nonstop. His mother stopped me in the hallway and asked, “Why does your daughter behave like this?”

“Please forgive her,” I said. “She’s sick.

” The woman snapped back, furious, “I don’t forgive her.

” Humiliated and trembling with rage, I answered, “Don’t forgive her then. Pray she goes to hell.” And I thought: neither do I. Not her. Not myself.

There is no dignity left for us. And yet we don’t dare sell the apartment. I’m terrified someone will trick us, that we’ll lose everything. Even if we sold it, we’d still have neighbors elsewhere. Same story, same nightmare. Once I overheard one boy from the building tell another, “The daughters of that crazy woman aren’t dangerous—just louder than their share.

” Everyone thinks my poor child is insane like her sister. Sometimes I wish she had schizophrenia. They say schizophrenics might stand like a tree for days, unmoving. For a while, I even wished she had cancer. People pity cancer patients. But mentally ill people? Society despises them. Because illness of the mind is seen as a choice. As if anyone would choose this.

I once watched a Korean drama. The main character developed schizophrenia out of guilt. A doctor kept telling him, “You must understand that what you see is an illusion. Only then will you heal.” In the end, she married him. These things only end well in films. But the doctor was right about one thing: if the patient doesn’t believe they’re sick, nothing works. I prayed endlessly, recited healing verses, until the mosque cleric told me, “It works better if the patient recites it themselves.” But how can someone pray for healing when they don’t believe they’re ill? You cannot heal a wound that does not exist for the one who carries it.

“Shut up. Shut up. You’ve exhausted me.”

Why should I care what other people are doing—whether they’re a man, a woman, or a child? A new neighbor has moved in. She’ll probably start harassing him too. She once leaned out the window screaming curses. The only blessing is that everyone else in the building is a tenant.

She has a bizarre delusion: everyone is a thief. She says people stole from her—classmates, coworkers. When she was better, she gave us money. Now she accuses us of stealing it. We explain that stealing means taking something without permission. She doesn’t understand. And we have stopped trying to make her understand. It only leads to more screams.

Once she accused the family on the second floor—husband, wife, three sons—of being drug dealers. Every time she leaves the house, we panic. We don’t know what disaster she’ll cause. Once she fought with someone violently, came home with a bruised face and broken glasses. The man filed a complaint; her car was impounded. I begged the judge for a month until they released it. But after sitting unused, the battery died. Just like us. Slowly. Without anyone noticing.

She caused a terrifying scene in the parking lot, slamming the gate so hard I thought it would collapse and kill her. I remember thinking: At least then we’d be free. But we never get that lucky. Luck does not live in houses like ours.

Her legal case is still unresolved. Summons arrived. She went to court. The plaintiff didn’t show up. On the night before the New Year, she went out at dusk. Later, they called—she’d been taken to Roozbeh Hospital. No one explained what she’d done. Apparently, she said something at the police station that convinced them she was insane. They institutionalized her—but the government doesn’t cover treatment. They told us to come pick her up. We took a rideshare, my heart about to explode. I yelled at her afterward, screamed until my throat burned: “If they take you to the asylum again, I won’t come. You’ll stay there until you die.” But even as I said it, I knew I would come. I always do.

I knew they wouldn’t keep her anyway. And now, for the past seven or eight months, she’s barely left the house.

“I need the bathroom. I have to go.”

As if anyone cares what she does in there. We have stopped caring about the small things. There is no room for small things here.

I once read on Instagram that happiness belongs to the rich and foreigners. Nonsense. Would a rich person feel happy with a child like mine? Maybe their only advantage is not caring what people think. They don’t live in tiny apartments. But no matter how large your house is, these screams follow you everywhere.

I’m terrified my other daughter will become like her. The shame, the grief, the fear of being a mother to two broken daughters never leaves me. No one understands what mothers like us endure. I believe this line of poetry with my entire soul: Only one who has lost a brother understands the grief of losing a brother. Only those in my place understand this pain. And I pray that no one else ever has to.

I unlocked the door and left for the mosque. My back is ruined; I can’t sit long. When I returned, I knocked and entered the room.

“Didn’t you make lunch?”

“Yes,” she said—and bent down, pulling the pot from under the bed. If anyone saw us hiding food under beds, they’d faint. But we know she contaminates everything with her mouth, eats entire pots, then curses endlessly in the bathroom because her intestines are damaged. We hide food to survive. Not to eat—to keep what little we have.

I handed her the pot. “Get up. Make the salad.” I looked at her. “What happened? Did she act out again?

“My heart shattered for this girl. Her future is destroyed because of her sister. I tell myself I married, I had children, my life—good or bad—has structure. But what about her? No job. No marriage. I blame myself. If only I hadn’t had two children. If the older one were sick, I could bear it alone. But now this one’s life is ruined by my choice of husband. And I cannot undo that. I can only carry it.

“Mom?”

“What?”

“Why are you staring?”

“Nothing. I’ll make the salad.”

I tell myself I am tired. That this anger is just fatigue wearing a louder voice. But deep down, I know that’s not the whole truth. There are moments—quiet, humiliating moments—when I realize I am ashamed of myself. Not of her illness, not even of this life, but of the way my hands move before my thoughts catch up, of the words that leave my mouth already poisoned.

When I look at her, I don’t always see my daughter. Sometimes I see a threat. Sometimes a burden. And sometimes—God forgive me—I see the shape of everything that ruined us. Not her face — but what her face has become. A mirror I did not ask for.

This realization comes suddenly, like nausea. I watch myself from somewhere far away: a woman standing in her own kitchen, jaw clenched, shoulders hunched forward as if bracing for impact that never fully ends. I have been in this position for years. My body remembers what my mind tries to forget.

I hear my own voice, sharp and impatient, and I wonder when it stopped sounding like a mother’s. She drops something. A fork. The sound is small, almost polite—but my body reacts as if a bomb has gone off.

“Enough!” I shout. The word fills the room, heavier than it should be. My younger daughter freezes. My sick daughter’s eyes widen, then narrow. I know that look. I’ve memorized it. Suspicion blooming into rage.

“I didn’t do anything,” she says, loud, defensive. “You’re always attacking me.” And she’s right. That’s the part that burns. Because she is not wrong. And I have no defense against the truth.

I press my fingers into the edge of the table until my knuckles turn white. I want to stop. I truly do. I want to be the kind of mother who breathes before speaking, who remembers that illness is not choice, who understands that she didn’t ask for this mind any more than I asked for this life. But understanding does not silence the noise. It doesn’t clean the mess. It doesn’t undo years of broken sleep and public humiliation and doors slammed so hard the walls remember. And I wonder: do walls ever forget? Or do they hold everything, like we do?

My anger rises faster than my mercy. “I can’t do this anymore,” I say, not to her, not to anyone—just to the room. “I really can’t.” But I say it anyway. Because saying it is the only relief I have left.

The moment the words leave me, regret follows. Heavy. Immediate. Useless. She laughs again, bitter this time. “See? You want me gone.

” I open my mouth to deny it, then stop. Because denial feels like another lie piled onto too many others. What I want shifts by the hour. By the minute. Sometimes I want silence. Sometimes distance. Sometimes escape. And sometimes—when the house is quiet and my younger daughter is asleep—I want to sit beside her bed and remember the child she once was, before fear colonized her mind. But that child is gone. And I am still learning to grieve her.

But wanting doesn’t change reality. I am ashamed because I know this: love exists here, twisted and bruised, but real. And still, it is not enough to make me kind all the time. I am ashamed because I am both her caretaker and her wound. And I am exhausted—so deeply exhausted—that even my guilt feels heavy to carry.

I stood there, holding the pot, feeling the weight of more than just its contents. Every movement felt deliberate, measured, as if I had to plan my life in small, careful steps, just to avoid another outburst. My daughter, tired yet obedient, washed the vegetables at the sink. Her face, though only twenty-five, looked much older, etched with lines that shouldn’t belong to someone so young. The sadness in her eyes mirrored my own, and it tore me apart from the inside.

“Let’s make the salad,” I said, my voice low, trying not to sound sharp. She nodded, but I could see the hesitation. The house had taught her to anticipate chaos. The sick one was unpredictable, a storm waiting to erupt. And we are always standing in its path. Always.

Any small sound might trigger the shouting, the slamming, the fear that made my blood run cold. Just as we began chopping, the other daughter stormed in, yelling: “You said there’s no food!

” I sighed. I didn’t even have the energy to argue. “You cleared out the fridge already. Don’t you have enough?

” She didn’t answer, only glared. I pressed my lips together, clenching my teeth, and muttered under my breath: “Get out. Go sit in your room. Enough.

” The tension crackled. She didn’t leave quietly. She wanted to take the salad, to assert control over the smallest thing. I slammed my hand down on the counter, enough to make my point without striking her. She looked at me, unbothered, and said, almost casually: “I want the salad.

” I felt a mix of exasperation and helplessness. I placed a small bowl of salad in front of her. She quickly served herself. I knew she understood how much we resented her, yet sometimes, just sometimes, she tried to connect. Her efforts were small, fleeting, but they reminded me that the girl under all the chaos was still there.

As we ate quietly, I reflected on my failings. I had chosen life, brought children into the world, and now their fates were entangled with the past and illnesses I never anticipated. My younger daughter, the one who wasn’t sick, carried her own hidden burdens—the worry, the fear, the constant pressure of living under this roof.

“Why do you read so much?” I had once asked her.

“So I don’t go crazy,” she had replied. “Psychologists say even if you’re idle, dig a hole and fill it. Don’t sit empty.” And I thought: what am I filling my days with? Nothing but noise.

Her words haunted me, but also comforted me. In the quiet moments of the kitchen, when chopping and washing became almost meditative, I realized that our survival depended on these small acts of normalcy. Even amidst chaos, the simple act of preparing a meal, of making a salad, became a lifeline. A small, ordinary thing—but in this house, ordinary is rare.

I watched her, my steady daughter, trying to keep balance in a house that had none. And for a brief instant, I felt a flicker of hope. Not a grand miracle, not an instant fix—just a small, fragile sign that maybe, somehow, we could endure another day.

I glanced at my daughter, then at my youngest, and my heart ached with a strange mix of shame, exhaustion, and helplessness. I didn’t know whether to cry, scream, or just vanish. But I could not vanish. Who would stay?

Yet my anger simmered beneath it all, as if the tension of years of unrelenting chaos had carved a permanent place in me. But for the first time in ages, I felt a fragile thread of hope stretching into our lives. It was not a rope. It would not hold weight. But it was there.

“Where is she? Is she asleep?” my youngest asked, worry threading her voice.

“No,” I said softly. “She’s awake, but she’s quiet.

” Her eyes widened in disbelief. “Really?

” I nodded. “Yes, really. She’s just… silent.

” A slow, astonished smile spread across her face. “Mom… I can’t believe it. That book… it had a connection. I tried it myself, then checked online. The author’s page showed so many people writing that connecting helped them. There was even a link—people could declare a connection, just by writing their names. Mom… I wrote yours and mine. And now she’s quiet. Come on, try it too!” Her hand was shaking. Not from cold—from something I had not seen in her for years: belief.

She grabbed my hand, shaking with excitement, as if we were on the verge of a miracle.

“I… I don’t understand. I need to read the book myself,”

I said. But the urge was undeniable. Something in her faith, her certainty, drew me in.

Poor woman—her husband collapses and she calls the emergency line with shaking hands. When he finally regains consciousness, the first thing he says is, “Who is this? Why is she here?

” I cannot even imagine such a life: trying to save your husband’s life, only to be interrogated afterward for why a stranger is standing in the house. While reading the brochure, I realized something: perhaps it is not a miracle. It opens a small door, but it calms the storm just enough to breathe. Even if the patient does not fully believe—mind could help. “Forget the book for a moment. Look at this,” she insisted, handing me her phone. A brochure filled the screen:

General Connection:

Ettesal (Connection/Link) to the Cosmic Consciousness Network through the Collective Mind

In Erfan-e Keyhani (Keyhani Halgheh), “connection” or establishing an Ettesal with the Cosmic Consciousness Network refers to the concept that human beings, without the use of any tools or techniques, can access the Cosmic Internet the Intelligence network governing existence. This connection, as defined in the system, may be applied for the benefit of oneself and others across various domains intelligent network, defined as the Cosmic Consciousness, may be applied for the improvement of oneself and others across various domains.

In establishing this connection, the individual is linked to the Cosmic Internet. The outcomes of this connection include physical,mental, and psychological healing, as well as inner transformation that lead toward an understanding of philosophy of creation and the attainment of self-knowledge.

The absence of scanning or other perceptible sensations does not necessarily mean that the connection has not been established. Such cases may have specific causes, which can be resolved through the continuation and persistence of the practice.

General Connection Collective Mind This connection take place at the following local times.

5:00, 6:00, 18:00, 22:00, and 23:00.

All those interested in establishing this connection and gaining spiritual and insightful experience are invited, wherever they may be, to participate in this global program, and while benefiting from its noetic aspects, to join the pioneering community engaged in the quest for knowledge and spirituality.

We followed the instructions, hesitating at first, speaking carefully, as if testing a fragile bridge.

The house remained quiet. My heart, so long burdened with fear, seemed to expand a little with each passing moment. “This… this feels different,” my youngest whispered. Her voice trembled with disbelief and wonder. “I…” I said softly, unsure if I could articulate the relief swelling inside me.

“…I think it’s working. But only if we keep trying. Only if we believe, even a little.” For the first time, silence felt like a presence, not a threat.

I watched both of them, the older daughter calm for once, the youngest cautiously hopeful. The storm that had ruled our lives so long had not vanished—but its roar was momentarily muted. And in that quiet, I understood something I had not known I could feel again: hope was fragile, yes, but real.

Not a promise of perfection, not a guarantee of safety—but a doorway, however small, into possibility. She shook her head, still unsure. “You mean… this connection made her quiet?” “Yes. I read the brochure,” her daughter said, eyes wide. “It suggested that talking to the mind—even if it doesn’t fully believe—could help. I thought… maybe it could, at least a little. Just trying it changed something.” I glanced at the older one, sitting silently, and felt a cautious hope stir.

The brochure had not promised miracles. It had simply opened a door we hadn’t dared to knock on. And now, for the first time in years, we peered through it together.

“Mom… can we do it too?” my youngest asked, holding the brochure like a talisman. I hesitated.

Skepticism lingered, naturally. How could we trust words on a page when our lives had been defined by chaos? Yet her faith was compelling, persistent. Perhaps, I thought, that was enough for a beginning. We followed the instructions, hesitating at first, speaking carefully, as if testing a fragile bridge. The house remained quiet.

My heart, so long burdened with fear, seemed to expand a little with each passing moment. “This… this feels different,” my youngest whispered. Her voice trembled with disbelief and wonder. “I…” I said softly, unsure if I could articulate the relief swelling inside me.

“…I think it’s working. But only if we keep trying. Only if we believe, even a little.”

For the first time, silence felt like a presence, not a threat. I watched both of them, the older daughter calm for once, the youngest cautiously hopeful. The storm that had ruled our lives so long had not vanished—but its roar was momentarily muted.

And in that quiet, I understood something I had not known I could feel again: hope was fragile, yes, but real. Not a promise of perfection, not a guarantee of safety—but a doorway, however small, into possibility. I held the brochure in my hands, aware of its ordinary appearance, but extraordinary effect.

This piece of paper, these words, had done what medicine could not: it had invited a moment of peace into our fractured home. We would need patience, persistence, and courage to keep it. But for the first time in what felt like forever, I allowed myself to believe that we could endure. That even amid years of suffering, light could enter. And that maybe, just maybe, our family could find a small measure of quiet joy.