“You’re not in charge of keeping this house running. That’s not your job. You’re nine.”

She kept scrubbing, not looking at me.

“If I help enough,” she said, “maybe we won’t have to move again.”

I took the cup out of her hands, set it down, and wrapped both arms around her.

“Listen to me. Dirty dishes cannot cost us this home. Nothing you do or don’t do can cost us this home. And me being tired is never, ever going to become your job to fix. That’s a promise, and I keep my promises to you. You’ve noticed that by now.”

She cried into my shirt until the stiffness finally went out of her small body and she was just a tired kid in her mother’s arms.