Later, when she was older, she understood what those nights had really been.
Fear.
Embarrassment.
Exhaustion.
But back then, all she saw was her mother making room for hope where there wasn’t any.
That same stubborn pride had been in the little girl’s eyes.
Like she wanted food, yes.
But not pity.
Lauren crossed Maple Street and almost got clipped by a pickup turning too fast.
The driver lifted two fingers in apology and kept going.
She reached the apartment building just as the sky turned the color of old bruises.
Calling it a building was generous.
It was a tired two-story place with cracked steps, a railing that wobbled, and siding that had peeled so long it looked like sunburn.
Apartment 2B smelled faintly of bleach and canned soup.
Her mother was asleep on the couch when Lauren stepped in.
A blanket covered her legs.
The television was on low.
