"Mama prays a lot," Rory said finally. "She thinks I'm asleep, but I hear her through the walls. Sometimes she cries, too."
My chest ached.
I knew this feeling. Knew it in my bones. The helpless knowledge of a child who understood too much, who saw the cracks in the foundation that adults tried so desperately to hide. The kind of understanding that didn't come with toys or bedtime stories—it came with late-night whispers and bills left open on the kitchen table.
I'd been that child once. Lying in bed, listening to Mom work double shifts, watching her skip meals so Emma and Sarah and I could eat, learning to stay quiet about the bruises from bullies because Jack had threatened her job and making trouble would only make things harder for her.
Children learned young who they needed to protect. Even when they were too small to do anything about it.
Especially when they were too small to do anything about it.
"Rory," I said gently. "Can you tell me what your mama prays for?"
