Lilly was tired.
Not the kind of tired sleep could touch, but the deeper exhaustion that settled into bone and stayed there—quiet, patient, waiting. If it could be written into the world, it would live in the bend of the trees outside their window, in the way the floorboards groaned even when no one walked on them.
She breathed through it anyway.
She always did.
Because of her son.
Yuri sat on the floor a few feet away, knees pulled to his chest, small hands carefully guiding a broken pencil across a scrap of paper. He worked slowly, tongue caught between his teeth in concentration, as if the world might break louder if he rushed.
Lilly watched him and felt the familiar ache tighten behind her ribs.
As long as he was alive.As long as he was breathing.
That had to be enough.
The door slammed.
The sound cracked through the house like a gunshot.
Lilly's body moved before her mind did. She stepped in front of Yuri, one hand behind her back, fingers searching for his shoulder. He pressed into her instinctively, as if they'd rehearsed this.
Henry stumbled inside.
The smell hit first—alcohol, sweat, something sweet and sour beneath it. His shirt was untucked, his belt loose, his eyes unfocused but sharp in the way that meant danger, not weakness.
"Well," he said, voice thick. "Look at this."
Lilly swallowed. "You're home early."
He laughed at that, a short, humorless sound. His gaze slid past her, landed on Yuri.
The laughter stopped.
"Why's he hiding?"
"He's not," Lilly said quickly. "He was just—"
Henry stepped forward.
The slap came fast and careless. Lilly hit the floor, her shoulder cracking against the boards hard enough to steal her breath. For a second, the room tilted, and she tasted blood.
"Mom!" Yuri cried.
Henry turned toward the sound like it offended him.
"Get up," he snarled at Lilly. "Don't you lie to me."
He kicked her once—low, brutal, meant to remind her of her place. Pain bloomed hot and dizzying, but she forced herself upright, dragging air into her lungs.
"Please," she said. "He didn't do anything."
Yuri tried to move toward her.
Henry grabbed him by the arm.
The sound Yuri made then wasn't a scream. It was smaller. Thinner. The sound of something folding in on itself.
"Stop!" Lilly surged forward, grabbing Henry's sleeve. "He's a child. Please—"
Henry shook her off and struck Yuri again, open-handed, sharp enough to knock him sideways. The boy hit the wall and slid down, stunned, eyes wide and glassy.
Something broke loose inside Lilly.
She threw herself over Yuri, curling around him, taking the next blow across her back. Pain exploded white-hot, but she didn't move. She couldn't.
"Run," she whispered into Yuri's hair. "Baby—run."
He didn't.
He clung to her shirt with shaking fingers, breath hitching in short, broken pulls.
Henry stood over them, chest heaving.
"Look what you make me do," he said, voice trembling with fury. "You don't respect me. Either of you."
Then he turned away.
The door slammed again, hard enough to rattle the windows.
Silence followed.
Lilly stayed where she was until her arms stopped shaking. Only then did she lift her head, heart hammering, every inch of her screaming.
Yuri was crying silently.
"I'm okay," she lied, brushing his hair back with trembling fingers. "I'm right here."
She did not pray that night.
She hadn't in years.
Prayer didn't put food on the table. It didn't keep doors closed or fists away. What kept her alive was simpler and heavier than faith.
Yuri needed her.
That was all.