Their whispers
seep through
the wall vents,
the crackle in the phone,
the inch space underneath their bedroom door.

They fake normalcy.

A pair of
spies
devising plans
to deal with
their children,
their belongings,
their money.

I silently holler
the flaw
in their plan.

Fake.

My siblings remain
oblivious, but
I wonder:

Maybe they were always
faking.