The small apartment was eerily quiet except for the distant hum of traffic outside. The weight of exhaustion pressed down on Maya’s shoulders as she sat on the couch, staring blankly at the flickering television screen. The divorce had drained her—emotionally, mentally, financially. She had fought for years in a marriage that suffocated her, only to watch it crumble when he betrayed her. Now, every day felt like a battle, but the war was only with herself.

A small voice cut through the fog in her mind. Six-year-old you stood a few feet away, your bright eyes filled with hope. You clutched a stuffed rabbit to your chest, your tiny hands gripping it like a lifeline.

Maya clenched her jaw. “I’m tired. Go play by yourself.”

But you pressed, stepping closer.

“I said NO!” Maya’s voice snapped like a whip, sharper than she intended.

You flinched but didn’t back down, tugging at the hem of Maya’s shirt.

A rush of irritation flared inside Maya, raw and uncontrollable. Why couldn’t you just listen? Why couldn’t you understand that Maya had nothing left to give? Before she could think, her hand lifted on instinct—

She saw the flicker of fear in your eyes.

And then—everything stopped.

Like a cold wave crashing over her, realization slammed into Maya’s chest, knocking the breath from her lungs. She stared at her own trembling hand, inches away from striking the child she had sworn to protect.

She had seen this before.

She had felt this before.

Memories of her own childhood clawed their way to the surface—of a mother who was always angry, always tired, always full of resentment. A mother who saw her as a burden rather than a child. A mother who yelled, ignored, and hurt.

Maya’s legs buckled, and she sank to the floor. Tears burned in her eyes as guilt twisted inside her like a knife. “Oh, God…” Her voice was barely a whisper.