The Quiet Hurt

The curtains were half-drawn, the television silent, the only sound coming from the soft click of plastic beads sliding through Tessa’s fingers as she braided Pretty’s hair.

The little girl sat on the floor between her mother’s knees, humming a tune under her breath. Beside them, Beauty was already half done, her small head glistening with neat cornrows.

“Mommy, can I get pink beads too?” Pretty asked, turning her head a little.

Tessa smiled faintly. “Yes, baby. ...