By noon she returned home exhausted, her knees aching and her hands trembling from fatigue that had become part of her life.
But she kept going.
Because in the small bedroom next door slept two children who depended on her for everything.
Their names were Lucas and Lily. They were nine years old.
Twins.
Lucas was quiet and observant. He could spend hours sketching trucks and highways in an old notebook without speaking.
Lily was the opposite—sharp-tongued, bright-eyed, and far too perceptive for her age.
Both of them called Margaret Grandma.
Both slept in the same small iron bed.
And both had learned never to ask if there would be more food.
On the kitchen wall hung a framed photograph of a young man with kind eyes and an easy smile.
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