Only four more to go.
A child wrapped in a preteen body, crumpled into a infant's pose. Whimpers. Silent tears dripping down blotchy cheeks.
Alone. Afraid. Angry. And still somehow absent.
Mother, dragging herself through a quagmire of pain, tiredness, and frustration. Reaching for patience and kindness but instead grasping the side of the couch in anger and despair.
Help.
Slowly, Mother lets go and reaches out to touch the shivering shoulder of the child next to her.
Like a spring, the tightly wound girl releases, turns and clings tightly to Mother. Tears fall on her shoulder.
Mother encircles the clinging child and utters words that bubble up from some unseen stream and flow out of her mouth to drip gently down, soaking the wounded and parched hearts below.
It's ok.
I'm proud of you.
You asked for help.
We all need help sometimes.
I am here for you.
I'll always be here for you.
I want to help you.
We can do this.
Let's do it together.
With each word, the trembling slows. Tears subside. The arms still tightly cling as if holding each word close to the chest, afraid to let go.
Ok.
Four math problems. Twenty minutes. Equals smiles and deep sighs of relief.
Thank you.
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