That is my job — to protect you.

And I am so sorry, baby.

I am so sorry that for a while there I was so sad that I couldn’t see how much you were carrying, and I let you carry it alone.

That was mine to carry.

Not yours.

Never yours.”

She started to cry then — not the composed, steady child from the altar, but a nine-year-old, finally, crying the way a nine-year-old should be allowed to cry — and she said, in a small voice, “But nobody else was going to say anything.

And they were being so mean to you.