“Here,” Knight said, thrusting a tangle of Christmas lights into my hands.“Make yourself useful.”
I stared down at the snarl of green wire and tiny bulbs, my massive fingers suddenly feeling like blunt instruments.I’d been pretty Goddamned big my whole life and had basically taught myself to do intricate work.But there was something about these delicate strands of Christmas lights that made me acutely aware of my size.
“Maybe I should handle the heavy lifting instead,” I suggested, looking at the mess dubiously.
“Nope.”Knight grinned.“Consider it fine motor skill practice.”
I sighed and settled on the floor, spreading the lights out around me.My boots were larger than some of the ornament boxes, my hands dwarfing the fragile bulbs as I carefully began to separate the strands.A few of the braver children edged closer, watching with fascination.
“Can I help?”Kira asked, her voice so soft I almost missed it.
I looked up, careful not to make any sudden movements.“I’d appreciate that.These fingers aren’t made for untangling.”
She knelt down several feet away.Close enough to help, far enough to bolt if needed.Then she began working on one end of the tangle.We worked in silence for a few minutes, her nimble fingers making quick progress while mine fumbled with the tiny wires.It wasn’t long before she was giggling at me.I winked at her, then gave a mock frown and she really started giggling.
More residents filtered into the common room, drawn by the carefree sound of Kira’s laughter, and probably the promise of Christmas.One of the strand’s plastic hooks snagged on my calloused palm, and I muttered “shit” under my breath before catching myself.“Sorry,” I said quickly, glancing around to make sure no kids had heard.
Kira looked up, a hint of amusement in her eyes.“My mom says worse when she thinks we’re not listening.”
The casual comment startled a laugh from me, a deep rumble that seemed to surprise her as much as it did me.Her eyes widened slightly, but she didn’t retreat.
Across the room, I caught Penny watching us again, her gaze traveling from her daughter to me and back again.There was wariness there still, but something else too.Something that looked almost like hope, fragile and uncertain.Our eyes met briefly, and I felt a strange tightening in my chest.I looked away first, suddenly finding the Christmas lights absolutely fascinating.
“There,” Kira announced, holding up her now-untangled section with a grin.“All fixed.”
“Thanks,” I said, genuinely grateful.“You’ve got a real talent there.”
The faintest smile touched her lips before she ducked her head, but not before I caught it.Small victories.Sometimes those were the only kind worth counting.
As the common room filled with the sounds of excited chatter and Christmas music, I continued my silent watch, even as I helped arrange ornament boxes and move furniture to accommodate the decorating.Protecting this small pocket of safety, ensuring these women and children could experience one Christmas without fear might not be my redemption, exactly, but it felt like a good purpose.
Now, I stood on the step ladder, stringing lights around the upper branches of the tree, when I felt someone watching me.I glanced down to find Zelda standing a few feet away, a glittery star ornament clutched in her hand.Her stance was different than usual, less defensive and more uncertain.She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, her dark eyes studying me with wary intensity.
I finished securing the strand of lights I was working on, then slowly descended the ladder, making each movement deliberate and predictable.With Zelda, as with many of the people here, sudden movements could shatter fragile trust in an instant.
“Need some help?”I asked, keeping my voice low enough that only she could hear.Private communication, no audience, no pressure.
She didn’t answer immediately.Instead, she examined the ornament in her hand, a five-pointed star covered in silver glitter that caught the light with each small movement.Finally, she looked up at me.“It’s too high,” she said, gesturing toward a specific branch about halfway up the tree.“I want it right there.”
Her directness surprised me.Not “Can you help me?”or “Would you put this up?”but a simple statement of what she wanted.No room for refusal, no vulnerability in asking.Smart kid.
“I can reach that,” I said, matching her matter-of-factness.
She held out the ornament, and I cupped my palm beneath her hand, letting her drop it into my waiting fingers rather than taking it from her.But instead of the quick release I expected, her fingers brushed against mine as she carefully placed the star in my palm.The contact lasted only a second, but its significance wasn’t lost on me.From a girl who flinched when men came within three feet of her, this deliberate touch felt monumental.
I closed my fingers gently around the ornament, careful not to crush the delicate hook.“This spot right here?”I confirmed, pointing to the branch she’d indicated.
She nodded, watching intently as I reached up, positioning the star exactly where she wanted it.The branch was sturdy enough to support the ornament’s weight, situated where the light from the windows would catch its glitter throughout the day.Not a random choice at all.
“Perfect,” I said, stepping back to view it.
“It’s not perfect,” Zelda replied immediately, but there was no bite in her words.Then, so quietly I nearly missed it, she added, “But it’s good.”
Something tightened in my chest, an unexpected swell of emotion I hadn’t felt in years.It wasn’t just about hanging an ornament.It was about being trusted with something she cared about, being allowed to help rather than being seen as a threat.For a kid who’d learned the hard way that men weren’t safe, this small act of inclusion hit me harder than I was prepared for.
I cleared my throat.“Got any more you want up high?”
The question hung between us for a moment.Then, miracle of miracles, a small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.Not a full smile, nothing that would crack her careful composure, but real nonetheless.“Maybe,” she said, and turned toward one of the ornament boxes, a clear invitation to follow.
