Holly Weaver made her son a mug of hot chocolate in the kitchen of the Tender House, and brewed a cup of tea for herself. It was past Daniel’s bedtime, but he showed no signs of wanting to sleep. It was almost, she thought, as though he knew a conversation between them was both necessary and imminent.
The Tender House was quiet. Four of the other bedrooms were occupied, two of them by women and children, and two by women alone. Holly had already exchanged words in passing with a couple of the women, and learned their names, but the kids—both girls of a similar age to her son—were in bed by the time she and Daniel arrived. Daniel might meet them over breakfast in the morning, according to Molly Bow, who introduced herself once Candy had shown Holly and Daniel inside.
Holly had never heard of the Tender House, although she’d encountered her share of victims of domestic violence. It was hard to be a woman in this world and not pick up on rumors, or even glimpse the evidence, but she never imagined she’d end up in a shelter herself. It made her feel ashamed. She wanted to knock on doors and explain that she wasn’t here because a husband or boyfriend had beaten her, threatened rape, or abused her child. She was hiding behind these walls because it was possible that a violent man might want to hurt her and her boy. But then she realized that had she made such an admission, the other women might well have nodded their heads in understanding, and pointed out that they were all in this place because of the fear of injury or death at the hands of men, and it didn’t much matter what mask their assailants might wear, or what their relationship to them might be. No one here was any better or worse than another, and there was no shame in seeking help when faced with male rage.
Now Holly sat Daniel on the double bed that they were to share, in a room filled with just enough color and quirk, and held her son to her as he sipped his hot chocolate, and said:
“I have something to tell you.”