Smaller.
Soft blankets.
A little bed low enough for her to climb into.
A cloth doll sitting against the pillow.
I felt Becca go still in my arms.
“Dolly,” she whispered.
My throat tightened so painfully I could barely breathe.
Matthew finally looked at me.
His voice came out quiet.
Almost careful.
“We get our own rooms?”
The question hit harder than the walls had.
Harder than the gates.
Harder than the bus ride.
Because it wasn’t really about the rooms.
It was about a child who had already learned not to expect good things asking if he was allowed to believe this one.
I looked away before my children could see my eyes fill.
All day I had been searching for the catch.
The hidden cruelty.
The punishment disguised as generosity.
The moment when the kindness would reveal it
