Everyone thought the baby was just “difficult” because he cried at night—until the Black maid quietly lifted the corner of the mattress and froze.

“Mama-Nomi,” he babbled.

Naomi picked him up. She kissed his cheek—the cheek that was smooth and unblemished. She rubbed his back—the back that had healed, leaving only faint, white scars that would fade with time.

“I’ve got you,” she whispered, humming the low tune. “No more secrets. No more pain.”

And as the baby fell asleep on her shoulder, Naomi knew that some families aren’t born. They are forged in the fire of saving each other.

THE END