I live in a townhouse complex where the walls are paper-thin. My neighbors, Diane and her husband, fight constantly. It’s not just yelling; I’ve heard things smash against our shared wall, followed by dead silence.
Their son, Mateo, is about seven. He’s a sweet, shy kid who barely speaks. He also seems to be the clumsiest child on the planet.
At least, that’s what Diane says. “Oh, Mateo’s a typical boy, always falling down!” she’d laugh whenever I’d see him with a new, dark bruise on his arm or a fading black eye. She’d say it a little too loudly, a little too cheerfully. But Mateo never acted like a “typical boy.” He never ran or shouted or roughhoused at the playground. He mostly just sat by himself, watching the other kids.
