Leni looked at her mother’s beaten, bruised face, the rag turning red with her blood. “You’re saying it’s your fault?” “You’re too young to understand. He didn’t mean to do that. He just … loves me too much sometimes.” Was that true? Was that what love was when you grew up? “He meant to,” Leni said quietly, feeling a cold wave of understanding wash through her. Memories clicked into place like pieces of a puzzle, fitting together. Mama’s bruises, her always saying, I’m clumsy. She had hidden this ugly truth from Leni for years. Her parents had been able to hide it from her with walls and lies,
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