“Please mister, buy this painting so we can buy bread,” three dirty triplets begged. The billionaire mafia boss stared at the canvas, his heart stopping. The woman painted on it was the wife he mourned for years. With shaking hands, he pulled out a black card and whispered, “Take me to her.”

world is just a different kind of prison for the people you claim to love.”

I had no rebuttal. The rain pounded relentlessly on the St. Jude’s awning. The silence between us was heavy with seven years of unsaid atrocities.

“You were pregnant the night of the fire,” I stated.

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I tried!” she cried, her voice finally cracking.continue reading …