I couldn't fathom how my delicate, pain-averse daughter had endured so much without saying a word until now. How long had she sat in that classroom with blood filling her shoe, afraid to cry, afraid to speak, afraid that making noise would bring more punishment? How long had she pressed her lips together and swallowed the screams while the boy who did this to her was praised and rewarded?
She was five. She was five years old, and she had learned omertà before she learned to read.
I looked up.
I glared furiously at Luna.
"Did your son do this too?"
My voice came out low. Stripped. The kind of quiet that comes after something inside you has cracked open and what's pouring out isn't grief anymore.
Luna glanced at me. Her tone was indifferent, the way someone discusses the weather, the way someone mentions a stain on a tablecloth.
"Why the fuss? You should be glad I didn't have my son take that brat's life."
She didn't finish the sentence.
I slapped her hard across the face.