Margaret spoke about Henry—how he’d been a construction worker, how he whistled while he worked, how he always came home dusty and smiling, arms ready for a hug. They were never rich, she said. They counted pennies. Paid rent late. But Henry always found a way to bring her a flower when she felt sad.
“He was my whole world,” Margaret whispered. “And now that he’s gone… I don’t know why I’m still here.”
Emily listened with a seriousness that didn’t belong to a child, but to someone who had already seen too much. Sometimes she held Margaret’s hand. Sometimes she just sat quietly, understanding without being told that some pain doesn’t need words.
And without realizing it, Margaret began listening too.
Emily told her about her mother, Laura—how she got sick suddenly, how there wasn’t enough money for medicine, how she died in a public hospital while Emily waited outside on the floor, hugging an empty backpack like it was a person.
She didn’t cry while telling it. But every word carried a weight that made the air feel heavier.
“I know my mom’s in heaven,” Emily said once, touching her chest. “But it still hurts here. I miss hugging her.”