It doesn’t seem like much, the look on her mother’s face, but there’s a whole other language in faces that few people bother to learn. A whole grammar of exclamation points and question marks all in one look.

“Miste!” Her mother calls, and she knows she has no choice but to come. Her mother is in charge, and one of the unfairnesses of life is that she must do whatever her mother says.

“Miste!” She calls again, more commanding. Her sweatshirt flies up as she runs down the stairs, revealing a bruise in the middle of her back.

“Hey Mommy!” The smile is bright in her voice, as though she hopes it can bring a smile to her mother.

Conversely, her mother’s mouth tightens, and the screaming begins.

She has long ago learned to block out sounds she doesn’t like; to let herself absorb them but not truly hear. So she does not hear the words hurled at her; she has built a shield around her, that will keep her safe.

Or at least, this is what she tells herself as she falls to the floor under the weight of the blows.