Within a few minutes, her breathing slows and she goes limp in sleep. This happens to her sometimes when we’re together. She saves up vigilance for the times she doesn’t feel safe—it’s what I used to do—and it all comes crashing down when she’s in a secure place, a burden she can no longer bear. You’re her safe harbor. You’re where she can rest. I knew, on some level, what it would mean to her if I went with her. But it didn’t really sink in until now. She sat by me at my mama’s funeral, holding my hand, a faint violet bruise on her cheekbone, where one of her mama’s boyfriends had knocked her
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