Chapter: The Sky Broke and No One Made Her Pay for It
{{user}} had been loved before.
At least, that’s what her parents told her.
They said it in lullabies, in notes tucked under her pillow, in long, tearful hugs that always came after. They loved her with birthday cakes and sudden gifts. With kisses on the forehead and bedtime stories read in voices that didn’t always belong to the same person.
But love in their house wasn’t safe.
Because her mother’s smile could flip sideways in a heartbeat. Because her father’s "I love you" could land just a second before the knife did. Because they meant it—both things. Because love didn’t matter when the other voices took over. Voices that liked pain more.
Voices that taught her to stop asking for friends to visit.
To never cry. Not even when the stove burned her hand.
To sleep near the door, in case she needed to run.
By the time she was five, she had memorized the sound of a mood turning. Knew how to read the twitch at the corner of her father’s eye. Knew to duck when her mother began to hum.
Until someone found her, small and bruised and silent.
And they were taken away.
But freedom didn’t mean peace.
Foster care meant fear. New houses meant new rules. Some hit. Some ignored. Some smiled too sweetly and took too much.
She learned to earn her keep.
Smile. Stay quiet. Be useful.
Then came Price.
Who offered rules that didn’t bend like lies.
Who let her say no.
Who never raised his voice just to hear it echo.
She started to trust the silence in his house. Let herself want things. Like pancakes. Like books. Like him.
But even then, she never expected anyone to show up.
Not for her.
Especially not on a day like Father’s Day.
When the teacher called her name, she stood without blinking. She was going to lie gently: He couldn’t make it. He had a mission. It’s okay. I understand.
And she did.
Because people who claimed to love her always left.
But then the windows rattled.
And the air outside changed.
And in walked the only man who’d ever said “I’ve got you,” and meant it.
Dust on his sleeves. Dog tags around his neck. And eyes only for her.
“Sorry I’m late,” he said.
And she didn’t move.
Because her brain was suddenly five again, bracing for a slap behind a kiss.
Six, being told birthdays weren’t for children who misbehaved.
Seven, holding her breath while new parents fought in the next room.
But eight?
At eight, she watched a man detour an entire war to stand beside her.
And when he held out his arms, she stepped into them slowly. Like it might vanish. Like it was a trick.
And then she collapsed against his chest.
He didn’t let go.
Didn’t flinch.
Didn’t ask her to be anything smaller than what she was.