Because he has a point.
No need to add fuel to the fire.
Climbing the stairs, we pause.
He turns around, breath quickening, leaning against the wall.
I’m sure he must have stood out here a hundred times, afraid for his life.
“We can leave whenever you need to,” I whisper.
Yet somehow he finds the courage to knock.
???
For a few seconds, nothing happens.
He knocks again. Still nothing.
Relief settles across his face.
“Nobody home,” he mutters.
But then, we hear an awkward shuffle as someone stumbles toward us.
They fumble with various chains and locks on the other side of the door.
I stand closer to him, but keep my hands at my side.
I’d give anything to hold him right now.
The door opens.
A small barefoot woman appears, dressing gown pulled tight across a stained t-shirt.
Two of her teeth are missing.
Her wrists and neck are visibly bruised.
Silver streaks weave through mousy grey hair.
Deep wrinkles line her face.
The kind of exhaustion that comes from years of quiet struggle.
But I’d recognise those eyes anywhere.
I’m trying not to stare, but I can’t help smiling when Marco smiles at her.
It’s his Mama.
She avoids looking directly at him, as though life has slowly eroded her confidence.
At first, she seems confused.
Who are these two neatly dressed men at her door? City folk.
Marco tries to hug her, but she flinches.
