The first word you choose is not Mama, or Dada. It is not something soft or sweet.

It is stop.

It happens at dinner. You sit in your high chair, hands sticky with mashed peas you have no intention of eating. Your mother wipes your face with a damp cloth, murmuring nonsense in that warm, sing-song way that mothers do.

Your father reaches across the table for his glass.

It tips.

The sound is immediate. Sharp. Glass shattering. Liquid spilling.

Your father curses. Your mother flinches.

And then, from the smallest body in the room, a voice—wobbly but firm.

“Stop!”

The air shifts.

Your mother’s hand stills mid-wipe. Your father blinks through the haze of liquor. A beat of silence. Then, a laugh—not cruel, not warm either, just… surprised.

“Guess the kid’s got something to say,” he mutters, pushing his chair back.

Your mother forces a smile, but her hands tremble as she picks up the shards, as she soaks the spill with a towel. You stare at her fingers, at the red line where she grips a broken edge too tightly.

You do not know what you have done. You do not know why the word sat in your chest, waiting to be said.

You only know it felt important.