It's the quick movement, the loud action, that draws attention. I can move so gently, so quietly, I become invisible. I practice every day. I watch from the stairway as my mom sips from her glass, and I move slowly down each stair. She doesn't look up; she doesn't shift in response to my presence. My footfalls are silent and soft. I control even my breathing. I do it so well that my father almost trips over me as he rushes past. He barks his surprise and curses as he continues. Inside, I am buzzing and proud. And I practice being invisible.
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