Isaac

The night rain lashed the windows. Isaac stood on the threshold, water dripping from his hair, washing away the blood on his cheekbone. He kept his eyes down, afraid to see contempt.

Leah didn't ask what happened. She simply took his hand and pulled him into the warmth of the apartment.

“To the bathroom,” she said quietly.

He took off his shirt. What he saw in the mirror wasn't just a teenager fleeing cruelty, but bruises etched in someone else's hatred. His stomach was a mess from a kick, his ribs ached. His back burned from the belt.

Leah entered without knocking. Seeing his back, she froze, but her voice remained even.

• Sit down.

He sank down onto the tiles. Her fingers touched his shoulder blades. He shuddered—at home they beat him, here they stroked him. They treated him. They saved him.

"For a bad grade?" she asked, treating the wounds.

— For the dishes. And because I want to leave... He heard our ringing.

Leah placed her palm on the top of his head, forcing him to tilt it back. Her eyes held not pity, but rage toward his father.

• You stay. Today, tomorrow, as long as it takes.

She finished. Isaac closed his eyes—the heaviness was lifting. The house smelled clean and safe.

Later, they sat on the floor, covered with a blanket. Leah stroked his arm, fingering the bruises.

"I want to become strong," he said. "So that he won't dare raise his hand again."

She smiled, brushing away tears:

• You're already strong. You come to me every time.

• But that's not enough...