“Of course,” Grace said. “I made it for you.”
Harper smiled faintly.
“My mother used to make this,” she said. “For my birthday.”
“When was your birthday,” Grace asked.
“Two months ago,” Harper replied. “I turned nine.”
“And did you celebrate.”
Harper shook her head. “Meredith said it was unnecessary.”
Grace felt something tighten painfully in her chest.
That evening, Meredith returned home with guests and ordered Harper out of sight. As Harper stood up quickly, she winced, and her sweater lifted just enough for Grace to see a dark stain beneath the fabric.
Later that night, Grace gently persuaded Harper to show her the injury, and the sight left her shaken. The wound was severe, infected, and unmistakably neglected.
“How long,” Grace asked softly.
“Since winter,” Harper replied. “She said I would be taken away if I told.”
Grace understood then that silence could no longer be an option, no matter the cost.
