Witmore, asking God to help him not be sad. After kissing Nia’s forehead, Relle lingered in the doorway. The street light outside cast a soft glow through the window, illuminating her daughter’s peaceful face. She watched the gentle rise and fall of Nia’s chest asleep quickly claimed her. Rochelle’s own prayer was silent but fierce.
She prayed that her daughter’s generous heart would always be protected, that her kindness would never bring her harm. In their world, she knew too well how quickly joy could turn to sorrow, how trust could be broken, but she also knew that living in fear was no way to live at all. Standing there in the quiet darkness, Roshelle wrapped her arms around herself, watching over her sleeping child.
The simple act of sharing breakfast with a lonely neighbor seemed innocent enough, but something about Mr. Witmore’s emotional reaction that morning had stirred an old uneasiness in her heart. Yet she pushed the feeling away, reminding herself that good deeds were like lights in the darkness. They showed the way forward, even when the path ahead was unclear.
