Aurora stood at the sink, drenched in sweat, staring down at a mountain of greasy pots and plates.

But it was the sight beside her that stopped my heart.

Elodie was balanced on a small plastic stool on her tiptoes, her hands deep in the wash basin, working at dishes far too heavy and too many for a five-year-old — her small fingers red and wrinkled and raw from the water and the harsh soap.

She wasn’t crying.

That was the part that broke me.

She had been taught not to make a sound.