Ever was crying. It was the ugly kind of crying that Nic remained ashamed she had allowed her daughter to see, no defenses, just weeping, snot dribbling, tears appearing faster than hands could clear away.

Nic felt her heart break as she rushed to her daughter’s side.

“What happened? Did your cousins say something?”

Only a head shake. Ever’s first attempts at speaking only produced sobs. Nic tried to hug her daughter, only to get pushed away, to have her daughter turn her back.

“Please tell me. Please.”

More sobs.

“Ever,” Nic’s voice shook.

“Dad. I want Dad,” the words were wailed. Further attempts at touch were rebuffed. “I need Dad!”

Lee.

Something she couldn’t give her daughter. Lee wasn’t coming back. And Ever had retreated to a place to hide so she could cry, rather than go to her mother.

She tried to draw Ever into a hug, and Ever fought her. Sobs and shouts and fighting overlapped with accusations, blubbered, inarticulate.

“—cause of you—”

“—if you’d—”

Each accusation was like a stab of a knife.

She forced the hug, and in that moment, Ever stopped fighting and hugged her back, fierce. The accusations stopped. With legs and arms both, Ever clutched her like she would never let go. And the noises and bangs of children playing became deafening. The press of trees and branches all around them became people, hands.

Nic fought to keep her daughter close, pulling her tighter into a nook between folding tables and chairs. People scraped by, pressed in so tight that jeans scraped the backs of her knuckles.

Ever cried out as tables nearby slid closer to the ground.

“I love you,” she said, and the din stole the words out of the air, so she couldn’t be sure Ever heard.

Then—a break in the noise of the crowd and the banging. A second where people didn’t press in so close that it hurt.

A chance to draw Ever further into the nook, her back to the folded tables.

To say something.

But—what could she even say? She’d said sorry before. So many times. She’d told her daughter she loved her more times than she could count. She’d uttered words in anger and words in despair. She’d made a thousand promises that she would do better or be a better mother, but she knew that she’d made those promises and broken them. She’d made promises in dreams, and she would never ever get a chance to keep them.

“Goodbye,” she said. Lucid words, while looking her daughter in the eyes. “I’m going to do my best to make sure no monster ever does something like this again.”