They were reflexes, worn smooth by repetition, the automatic responses of children who have developed, out of necessity, a system for surviving a recurring danger.

Two little girls, nine and six, had built between themselves a whole quiet architecture of mutual protection, a set of signals and instincts and practiced moves, for the specific purpose of getting each other through the times when the cruel adult came and the protecting adults were not enough or not there.

And they had built it in my house, under my roof, during my absence, without my ever knowing it existed.

There is something that breaks a parent’s heart in a particular and permanent way about discovering that your children have had to become each other’s guardians because you were not there to guard them.