Finally, he unties the rope, throws it on the floor, and walks out. I lie there waiting for my mother to come and console me. She doesn’t come. I wait after every beating, but she never comes. She always follows him out the door, and I listen to their voices and laughter as they tell stories. I wait breathlessly to hear the front door close. I cannot relax until I know he is out of the apartment. It’s hard to steady my breathing as I watch the lights from the cars on the street below sweep across my ceiling. Swoosh, swoosh, swoosh. Eventually, I curl up into a ball and slip my thumb into my
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