She didn’t ask questions that would get me in trouble.
Didn’t ask, “Where are your parents?” or “Shouldn’t you be home by now?” She just watched me carefully and said, “You shouldn’t have been alone out there.”
Then she added, so gently, “If you ever need warmth or a snack, you knock.”
And I did.
That moment became the start of something sacred.
Over the next year, I became a regular guest in her world. I never told anyone.
Charlotte was my secret — my safety net in a life full of trapdoors.
My only friend.
I showed up with bloody knees, tear-stained cheeks, and that tight, unnamable ache in my chest.
She sat me at the same table, made soup from scratch, and listened without trying to fix me. Sometimes I didn’t say a word.
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