“You’re not fooling her. You know that, right?” She looks so pitiful, so broken, standing there with her hair a wreck and that bruise on her tear-stained cheek. A fragment of my heart splinters off and drops at her feet. I want to help her. Want to fix it for her. But I don’t know how. “Thank you for all of this,” she says, waving her arm at the bags scattered below. “I appreciate it more than you know. But you can’t be here. I need you to go.” “Before he gets home.” It’s not a question. I know what she means.
