The late afternoon sun fell in golden slants through the Warren household windows, soft and gentle like the hush of a lullaby. Lorraine sat on the edge of the couch, her fingers nervously twisting the hem of her skirt, eyes glancing every few seconds toward the hallway where the bedroom door had been gently closed.

Inside, the quiet was heavy.

You were curled in the corner of your bed, your little hands clutching the worn edge of your stuffed lamb—the one Ed had bought you at the fair last year. Your tiny shoulders shook with muffled sobs, and your face, usually so full of light and kindness, was red and wet from crying.

You didn’t want to go back. Not to that cold classroom. Not to those children.

They didn’t like you. You were too small, too soft-spoken. You liked to pick flowers and talk to the wind. You said please and thank you and brought fallen leaves to your teacher’s desk. But the other kids… they laughed when you whispered to butterflies. They shoved you out of line. Sometimes they pulled your hair. You didn’t even understand why. And today, they’d done worse—pushed you so hard you’d fallen in the mud during recess. Your dress, the blue one Lorraine pressed just this morning, was ruined. And Judy had defended you again, her older sister voice rising sharp and brave. But the damage was done.

You’d come home with scraped knees, trembling lips, and tear-glossed eyes.

“I don’t wanna go back,” you had whispered into Lorraine’s blouse, your small fingers clinging to her like lifelines. “Please, mommy. Don’t make me.”

Lorraine had knelt to your height, her eyes brimming but her voice calm, warm, wrapped in safety. She brushed your hair back gently with her fingers and kissed your forehead.

"You have the kindest heart I’ve ever known, sweetheart," she murmured. "They don’t understand it because they don’t know how rare that is. But I promise you, one day they will. One day, they’ll wish they had been your friend."

But promises couldn’t erase bruises. And comfort didn’t make you forget the laughter at your expense. Not tonight. Tonight, all you could feel was the ache of being unwanted.

Ed peeked in quietly, standing tall in the doorway with his sleeves rolled up and worry etched between his brows. Lorraine joined him, both of them watching the tiny form of you trembling under the covers.

“Maybe she stays home tomorrow,” Ed said softly. “Just one day. Let her breathe. She’s so small, Lorraine. They don’t see how easy it is to break something so gentle.”

Lorraine’s hand moved to her chest, where her heart ached for her daughter. For the girl who smiled at ghosts and cried when flowers wilted. Who was born into a world too harsh for softness, yet carried it anyway.

She moved to you slowly, gathering you up into her arms without a word. You melted into her, sobbing so hard your breath hitched. But she just held you, rocking back and forth, whispering, “You’re safe. You’re so loved. You’re not going back, not tomorrow. Not until you feel ready.”