She glared at me like she was a prisoner of war and I her unjust captor. I could see now how much she looked like her mother, defiant and strong. Confident. Unyielding. Like her own little storm.
“You shouldn’t steal,” I told her.
“I want to go home,” she said.
“You are home.”
“I want my mother.”
“You don’t need her,” I said.
In a flash, her face crumpled with fury. She reached for the picture frame I kept on my desk, the one of my deceased parents. Then she smashed it straight down on the ground, shattering the glass.
“Don’t,” I said, standing at once. I moved to her, grabbed her by the arm, and pushed her back. Truly, I didn’t want her to hurt herself on the glass, but she winced like I was going to hurt her. “I’m not going to strike you.”
“… hate…”
“What was that?” I asked, una
