Nine years ago, Claire’s father had walked out of our small house and never looked back.
He had left me with a four-year-old who wouldn’t sleep unless I sat beside her.
I made a promise into the dark of her bedroom: she would never have to beg for love, safety, or a place in my heart.
I had built every day since around that promise.
I made a promise.
“Mom?”
I turned.
Claire stood in the kitchen doorway, thirteen years old and already taller than she had any right to be.
“Mom, please don’t say no.”
Behind her stood a girl I had never seen before.
“Mom, please don’t say no.”
Wet sneakers.
A black trash bag clutched in both hands.
Eyes that kept moving around my kitchen like she was counting doors.
“This is Maren,” Claire said. “Her mom died last month. Her dad’s not around.”
The girl looked at the floor.
“She’s staying with her mom’s cousin now,” Claire added fast.
I had already guessed where this was going.
The girl looked at the floor.
“But he has five kids already,” Claire went on, “and there’s no room. Please, Mom. Can she stay with us? Just for one week.”
I set the wooden spoon down on the counter.
I looked the girl up and down again, and then asked what seemed like the most important question.
“How bad is it there?”
“Can she stay with us?”
Claire’s face changed.
Maren’s knuckles went white on the plastic.
That was answer enough for me.
“One week,” I said.
I had no idea the situation would escalate out of control by the following morning.
That was answer enough for me.