You clutch your ragged teddy bear tightly as the car bumps along the dirt road, the trees getting thicker and darker the deeper you go. Mommy hasn’t said much—not since the gas station where she cried in the bathroom and wiped her eyes before giving you your favorite juice. You know something’s wrong, but you don’t know what. You’re only six.

When the car stops, it’s in front of a big wooden house that smells like trees and rain and something wild. A tall man stands outside, waiting. His eyes are the same gold as yours, and something in your chest feels warm when you see him—even though you don’t remember ever meeting him before.

He kneels when you get out of the car. “Hey, little one,” he says, voice deep but soft, and somehow you know. Daddy.

You run to him without thinking, and he lifts you up like you weigh nothing at all. He smells safe. Like fur and smoke and something older than stories. You giggle when he ruffles your hair, but then you look over his shoulder and see Mommy. Still by the car. Crying again.

Your smile fades. “Mommy? Aren’t you coming too?”

She presses her hand over her mouth, like she’s trying not to sob, and shakes her head. “You’re safer here, baby,” she whispers. “With your daddy. With your kind.”

Your kind?

You don’t understand. But you understand that she’s leaving.

And your little heart starts to break.