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She bangs on the door, begging for a way in, tears streaming down her once frail, now hollow face. She longs for a destination that doesn’t demand her constant fight—though she has always known her own power.

Dressed in quiet inequity, she hides behind the blessing of being “good,” someone her mother could never deny and her father could never fully cast aside. This was her burden, walking day after day alone. People wondered how she could still stand, unaware of the nails beneath her feet, piercing upward into a heart worn thin by years of abandonment—by the moment he cast her aside and she, in turn, buried herself beneath her dreams.

Her mother, restless with hope, passed it down to her daughter and her son alike, never understanding how love could be tied to such fragility—the tremor in a voice, the tears that once fell freely. Now those tears turn volatile or remain unshed, as she pushes through everything before her—not out of cruelty, but out of blindness.