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I can't remember my mother's voice.

I can remember my father's voice, but not my mother's. She died giving birth to me, leaving me in the "care" of my father.

My father's voice is a voice that I know well. However, I know not what it sounds like when he speaks in a normal tone, for all I have ever heard from him is shouting.

I don't think my father remembers my voice. Ever since a very early age, I've barely been speaking to him. It's better for us both for us that way. My father is a big believer in the phrase "children should be seen and not heard" and I don't want to talk to him anyway. Why would I? Anything I say he'd respond with an insult shouted in my face, maybe accompanied by a slap to the arm if he felt like it.

I sit here in the living room of my neighbor, kicking my feet and fidgeting in the plush armchair. It squeaks a bit as I shift my weight back and forth.

I haven't heard my voice in a long time, save for quiet conversations at school. For me to be talking to someone outside of school is very rare, yet here I am, sitting across from the woman who always hands out the largest candy bars at Halloween. I never learned her name, but I know her face.

"Whenever you're ready, sweetheart," she coaxes. I look up from the floor and make eye contact with her. Her warm brown eyes are the same color as my father's, yet so different. While my father's are cold and dull, hers sparkle with kindness and comfort me. I decide right there and then that those are eyes I can trust.

I take a deep breath and start talking. My voice is raspy at first, but as I go on, it becomes clearer and my confidence in my words grow. I tell the kind woman about my father, and she listens, never pausing to interrupt me.

When I finish, I'm out of breath, so I just sit there and keep on looking at her. We stay like that for a while, then without a word, she stands up, crosses the few feet of carpet between us, and embraces me in a hug. I'm hesitant at first, but after after a second, I accept the gesture and wrap my arms around her too.

"It's okay," she murmurs. "We'll get this sorted out."

I nod numbly into her shoulder. She continues softly speaking to me, soothing me with her words, but I'm only partially paying attention to what she's saying. Instead, I'm just listening to the sound of her voice.

If my mother was still alive, I think that's what her voice would sound like. For a second, a surge of happiness goes through me. For a second, I think that I've remembered the sound of my mother's voice. Then, a second later, I remember that I'm imagining things again.

Because I can't remember my mother's voice.