It was not warm, and it was not real, and it gave away nothing at all.

I had watched Samantha build that particular smile over years, and I knew exactly what it had cost her to develop it and what it protected.

It was the smile of a child who learned early that her feelings about her mother were not safe to show, that longing led to disappointment and disappointment led to pain, and who had constructed, out of necessity, a calm and pleasant surface that let nothing through.

It was armor, that smile, beautifully made.