The electricity had been cut again. The landlord hadn't bothered with a warning this time. Emma lit the small paraffin lamp, and its soft yellow glow danced across the cracked wall and onto Lia's small face.
"Can we draw today, Mama?" Lia asked, holding up a pencil stub and a folded piece of carton.
Emma smiled. "Of course, my little artist. Come here."
They sat on the cold floor, a single pillow between them. Emma watched her daughter sketch crooked suns, smiling stick figures, and a small house with a tree beside it. She didn't have crayons — just an old red pen and black pencil — but to Lia, it was enough. It was everything.
"Mama," she said, pointing at one of the drawings. "That's you. That's me. That's our house."
Emma nodded. "It's beautiful."
"And we are happy."
Those four words — "And we are happy" — did something to Emma. For a moment, it broke her. Then rebuilt her again.
She pulled Lia close, kissed her forehead, and whispered, "I will make sure you always are."
Later that night, after Lia had fallen asleep under the same old blanket, Emma sat by the window. The streetlight outside flickered weakly, casting shadows through the iron grille. She thought of everything she couldn't give Lia — proper shoes, warm food every night, toys, a real bed.
But somehow, Lia never complained. She loved her mother fiercely, and that love felt like the only pure thing Emma had left in this world.
As if fate heard her silent pain, there was a soft knock on the door.
She froze.
Another knock.
Cautious, she opened it a crack. It was Ruth.
"Don't panic," the older woman said softly. "I know it's late."
Emma opened the door fully. Ruth looked tired — she always did — but tonight, her eyes held something else. Concern.
"I brought you this." She handed Emma a small flask. "Tea. You looked pale today."
Emma took it slowly. "Thank you."
Ruth stood silently for a while, then added, "And I saw the landlord earlier. I know. You're not alone, Emma. I've seen how you carry yourself. Like someone holding back a scream."
Emma looked away.
Ruth sighed. "I was you once. I had my Lia too. But life has a way of breaking women like us quiet enough that no one hears the sound."
Tears welled up in Emma's eyes.
"Come sit," she whispered. "Even if just for a moment."
And that night, two women — broken, weathered, and tired of being silent — sat together over lukewarm tea, not saying much, but understanding everything.
To be continued..