He held me for a long time, as though trying to gather every year we had lost in one embrace.
Then he gently pulled back, his eyes searching my face.
"Anne… what happened to you?" he said softly. "Where's your mother? Theresa? What… what are you doing here like this?"
His voice broke at the end. He was staring—at my tattered dress, my bruised arms, the dirt on my skin, the hollowness in my cheeks. His eyes fell on my swollen face, the dried tears, the weight of years I had no business carrying.
I tried to answer, but nothing came out. Just a quiver of my lips and the crack in my voice.
He stepped back in disbelief, shaking his head. "Where's your mother?" he asked again, slower this time, almost pleading.
I swallowed hard.
"She's gone," I whispered.
He blinked. "Gone where?"
I looked up at him, and in that moment, he understood.
His hand went to his mouth. "No…"
"She died," I said quietly. "After she found out about Dad. After everything. Her heart… just gave up."
He turned away, running his hand over his face. The silence between us pressed down heavy.
"I came back too late," he said, almost to himself.
I didn't answer.
He looked at me again, eyes filled with guilt. "Anne, how long have you been out here like this? Why didn't anyone… why didn't your uncle—?"
"He threw us out," I cut in, voice sharper than I expected. "Took everything. Left us with nothing. Just me and the kids."
Mr. Philip's face darkened.
And for the first time, in a very long time, I saw something in someone's eyes that felt like fire—not pity, not sadness—rage on our behalf.
"You're coming with me," he said firmly. "Now."
I stood frozen.
His words echoed: "You're coming with me. Now."
But I didn't move.
I looked back at the small path that led to the shack we'd called home for the past few months. My siblings were still there—probably hungry, probably waiting for me to return with scraps.
I wiped my face quickly and shook my head. "I can't just leave. My brother and sister… they're waiting. I need to go back."
Mr. Philip's face softened, but his jaw remained clenched.
"Then take me to them," he said. "Please."
I hesitated. My heart pounded in my chest. Part of me wanted to run—run far from him, from hope, from being disappointed again. But another part… the part that hadn't completely shut down… nodded.
I turned and led the way.
The walk was silent, but heavy. He didn't ask questions. He didn't need to. Everything he needed to know was written in the dust on my feet and the slouch in my back.
When we got to the shack, I paused at the door.
"They don't know you," I said.
"They will," he replied.
I pushed the door open.
My little brother was curled up in the corner, fast asleep. My sister looked up as the light from outside spilled in—and when she saw the tall man standing behind me, she shrank back.
"It's okay," I said, gently. "This is Mr. Philip. He… knew Dad."
He knelt down slowly, eye level with her.
"Hello, sweetheart," he said quietly. "You look just like your mother."
Tears filled his eyes. And mine.
My sister stared at him, then at me. Then nodded.
That night, he didn't leave.
He cooked. He cleaned. He sat with us like we were his own.
And for the first time in a long, long while… the dark didn't feel so heavy.
Not yet hope.
But something close.
A flicker.