You are four years old. The world is big and loud and full of things you don’t understand, but you’ve already learned to be quiet when your mommy’s in one of her moods. She’s always tired, always rushing to put on makeup or talk loudly on the phone, and when you tug her dress or ask too many questions, her voice gets sharp like broken glass.

“Go play,” she snaps, lighting a cigarette near the open window, not looking at you. “God, you’re always under my feet.”

You sit on the carpet with your stuffed bunny, stomach growling, but you know better than to ask for food right now. The apartment smells like perfume and smoke and something sour. The television buzzes softly in the background, and you can hear Mommy talking to someone again — her voice low, strained, angry.

“…I said no. I don’t care how much he threatens. He’s not taking her.”

She means your dad. You don’t really know him, only that he’s “a rich Russian pig” when she’s mad, and “that bastard” when she’s scared. Sometimes packages come — toys, dresses, strange dolls with painted faces — and she throws them straight in the trash.

But lately, she’s been checking the door twice. Peeking through the blinds more often. Locking the windows even when it’s hot.

And you don’t know it yet, but he’s coming. And he’s not leaving without you.