The Daughter Allowed Only 10 Seconds of Voice Chapter 01

The Daughter Allowed Only 10 Seconds of Voice Chapter 01

I was the talkative one growing up, while my little sister Mira had a severe speech disorder.

After that, the most important thing in our house? Listening to Mira speak.

The first time, I won first place in a speech contest.

Mom had barely finished one question when Mira whispered that she wanted water.

The whole family rushed over. “Mira asked for something on her own today.”

My award certificate ended up pinned under her water cup.

The second time, Mira had to give the the Pack Academy coming-of-age speech, but she was so nervous she couldn’t get a word out.

Mom had me prepare the script. Dad had me record tone and pauses. Corin practiced with her line by line.

She won first place on my script.

At the celebration dinner, everyone praised Mira for daring to speak up.

No one mentioned that I had written it.

The third time, Dad decided to make a Family Voice Archive for the whole family.

Mira stayed silent for three minutes, and they waited patiently for all three.

When it was my turn, Mom gave me ten seconds.

I had just started. “Actually, next week I’m going to…”

She pressed pause.

My voice stopped mid-sentence.

What I meant to say was that I’d been accepted to Northreach Academy, a three-year Northern Territory Fellowship.

The day I left, I didn’t tell a single person.

Not that it mattered. No one in this family had ever let me finish a sentence.

*****

“Mira has been afraid to speak since she was little. We wanted to take this opportunity to record the moments when she talks.”

Dad’s hoarse narration played from the computer.

When the voice archive ended, they clustered together, debating what to recut and where Mira’s voice should be turned up.

I sat nearby, unable to get a word in.

Suddenly, Dad turned to me.

“Tessa, is there anything else you think needs fixing?”

I froze. That was the first time anyone had asked me anything all night.

“I… I only got ten seconds. I hadn’t even finished…”

“Enough. Wasn’t ten seconds plenty?”

Corin cut me off.

“If you talk like you did when you were little, you’ll ruin this archive before we’re done.”

I blinked.

I hadn’t expected Corin to still blame me for it.

When Mira was two, we did a Pack preschool performance together.

I had a long speaking part. Mira was so nervous she couldn’t say a single line.

Mira never finished the performance, and she came out of it with speech anxiety.

The day she was diagnosed, Mom held Mira and cried all afternoon.

Dad and Corin laid down a rule on the spot: from now on, whenever Mira wanted to speak, everyone had to stop and listen.

And I was the one told to apologize to her.

Because in their eyes, my constant talking and attention-seeking as a child had made Mira more and more afraid to express herself.

After that, they were always reminding me:

Talk less.

Be quieter.

Or better yet, don’t speak at all.

Once I ate a poisonous herb by accident and damaged my throat. They didn’t take me to a pack healer. They were actually relieved I couldn’t talk.

That was the truth. Simply for talking, I had become the family’s villain.

The wolf deep in my mind, the one who perked up whenever she heard a voice, slowly quieted too.

Later, every time I wanted to speak, she would curl back into the shadows first.

And so I became the family ghost, a mouth that opened but made no sound.

At dinner, Dad played the finished cut again.

“Now that sounds like Mira. Soft and lovely.”

They were all pleased with the new version.

I ate quietly, afraid to make a sound.

Then Mira stammered out of nowhere.

“Tessa, I’m… I’m sorry.”

“It’s… it’s my fault. I got so… nervous, and I talked… too… long and took up… your… time.”

The moment Mira spoke, Mom and Dad’s eyes lit up.

“Mira, that’s amazing! You said so much all at once!”

“Sweetheart, remember this: wanting to speak is always a good thing.”

“You never have to apologize to anyone for speaking.”

Dad turned and stared at me, expressionless.

“You’ve been a chatterbox for years. You just talked a little less during the recording. What’s with the attitude?”

Mom tugged my sleeve.

“Apologize to Mira right now. The way you’re acting will hurt her confidence.”

I looked at them and swallowed the sad howl rising inside me.

In the end, I said a flat “sorry.”

Then I turned and went straight to my room.

Behind me, Mom, Dad, and Corin were still soothing and praising Mira.

How wonderful.

They were the loving, harmonious family.

And I had always been the extra voice.

Once I was gone, this family would finally be perfect.

I lay in bed with an empty stomach, scrolling through the pre-arrival tips that Northreach Academy’s upperclassmen had sent.

At school, my love of talking had made me a lot of friends, and they’d passed on plenty of advice.

Out there, speaking was my strength.

Only in this house did it become a flaw.

Northreach Academy was the most prestigious werewolf academy within the Northern pack alliance, training specialists in territory systems, Pack communication, and field research.

The offer I’d accepted was the three-year Northern Territory Fellowship.

On my phone, the silver-white wolf emblem of Northreach Academy gleamed.

One week. One last week.