“Lena!” His voice broke, louder than any battlefield command he’d ever given.
The little girl flinched, eyes widening not with joy, but with fear, as if love itself had become something dangerous to hope for.
“Dad…?” she whispered before tears took over her whole face and body.
He scooped her into his arms. She felt too light. Too fragile. Too cold. And while he kept whispering, “It’s okay, you’re safe now,” he noticed the bucket of dirty water, the ragged pillow, the faint impression in the dirt that meant this had not been temporary — this had been her reality.
Eventually, when words could fight past the fear, Lena trembled and confessed in a voice that barely existed:
“She made me sleep here… said I didn’t deserve the house when you weren’t here… said I was the problem.”
It felt like someone had replaced Daniel’s blood with fire.
He stormed back inside with Lena in his arms. Rebecca stood rigid, her mask cracking.
“I can explain—”
“You’d better,” Daniel warned. His voice did not need to shout. It carried a storm anyway.
