The morning sunlight crept through the curtains in Clara’s small room. Her eyes were tired from crying the night before.
She sat at her desk, the pen in her trembling hand hovering over the paper.
Her resignation letter was already halfway written.
Every word felt heavy, not because she feared losing her job, but because she was done. Done with Tiana’s endless accusations, done with the insults, the slaps, the humiliation. Done with watching Daniel — that sweet, quiet boy, shrink into himself each day while she stood by helplessly.
She glanced at the boy’s picture on her phone, taken secretly months ago when he was smiling during breakfast. Her chest tightened. “You don’t deserve this,” she whispered. “You deserve your mother.”
Folding the paper carefully, she placed it on the table
