Her mother was on the floor again. 
Collapsing like an ancient building that gave in to the hundredth storm that hit it. 
Breaking like her grandmother’s favorite china did when daddy came home with emptiness in his eyes, alcohol in his veins, and rage ruling his tongue. 

Her mother was crying again. 
Her pain was loud tonight. 
Her pain echoed through the narrow streets of their neighborhood. 
Her pain screamed from a thousand amplifiers. 
Reverberating in every corner of the universe. 

She was seven. 
Not every wise. Not designed to understand separation. 
Her heart was kind. 
The kind of kind that shares a favourite cookie with the worst enemy. 
She sat next to her mother and whimpered. 
Sorrow oscillated from mother to child. 
Child to mother. 

Some children break before they blossom. 

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