Why Children Ask Unanswerable Questions

Why we learn to look at the wall instead of the window

The kitchen table is scarred with the white rings of cold coffee cups, and the linoleum near the sink is peeling up at the corner, revealing the grey glue beneath. It is Tuesday morning, or perhaps Wednesday; the light coming through the window is flat and grey, the kind that makes everything look like it is waiting for something to happen. A child sits on a chair that is too big for him, his legs swinging, heels thumping against the rung. He holds a piece of toast in one hand and points with the other at the ceiling, where a dark, spreading stain marks the water damage from the leak in the roof above.

“Why is the house bleeding?” he asks.

The mother is washing a plate. The water is hot, steaming up the small window above the sink. She does not turn around. She scrubs the plate with a sponge that has lost its abrasive power, making a dull, wet sound. She knows the stain is not blood. She knows it is mold, or perhaps just old plaster dissolving in dampness. She knows the roof has been leaking for three years and that the landlord has not fixed it because the lease says the tenant is responsible for minor repairs. She knows that if she says “It’s just water,” the child will ask why the landlord does not fix it, and if she says “The landlord does not fix it,” the child will ask why they stay, and if she says “Because we have no money,” the child will ask why they have no money, and if she says “Because the rent is too high,” the child will ask who sets the rent, and the chain of questions will lead to the door, and the door will open, and the world will rush in, and she will have to explain things she has spent ten years learning to ignore.

“It’s not bleeding,” she says. Her voice is flat, stripped of the sharp edge of truth. “It’s just a stain. Go eat your toast.”

The child stops swinging his legs. He looks at the stain again. He looks at the back of his mother’s head, at the way her hair is pulled back in a loose, fraying clip. He does not believe her. He knows that things bleed when they are hurt. He knows that houses are made of wood and stone, and that wood rots and stone cracks, but he also knows that the word “stain” is a word adults use to make things stop being interesting. He wants to know why the house is hurt. He wants to know who hurt it. He wants to know if the house feels pain.

The mother turns off the tap. The silence in the kitchen is thick, filled with the drip of the faucet and the hum of the refrigerator. She dries her hands on a towel that is stiff with detergent. She looks at the child, and for a second, her face softens. She sees the question in his eyes, a clear, bright thing that cuts through the film of her routine. She wants to answer it. She wants to say, “The house is hurt because we are poor, and the people who own the houses are rich, and they do not care about the people who live in them.” But she cannot say it. To say it would be to admit that she is part of the problem, or at least part of the helpless, and that is a truth she cannot carry while she is trying to get him to school on time.

“Drink your milk,” she says instead. She pushes the glass toward him. The milk is cold. The glass is slippery.

The child looks at the milk. He looks at the stain. He does not drink. He stands up, his chair scraping against the floor, a harsh, grating sound. He walks to the window and presses his hand against the glass. The glass is cold. He can see the street outside, the cars moving slowly in the rain, the people walking with their heads down, looking at their phones, avoiding each other’s eyes. He wonders if they see the stain in the kitchen. He wonders if they know that the house is bleeding. He wonders if they have forgotten how to ask.

This is the moment where the honesty dies. It does not die with a bang. It does not die with a shout. It dies with a substitution. The child learns that “stain” is the word for “bleeding.” He learns that the adults are not lying, exactly. They are editing.

The child puts his hand down from the window. He looks at his mother. He does not ask again. He picks up the glass of milk and drinks it. The milk is cold and sweet. It tastes like nothing else. He swallows. He sits back down. He eats his toast. He does not look at the stain. He looks at the wall. The wall is white. The wall is clean. The wall does not bleed.