Her mother, a Black American woman in her thirties with tired eyes and gentle hands, smiled wearily.
“Just tomorrow to see the place,” she said. “But you have to behave.”
“I will. I promise.”
That night, Sky lay in bed staring at the cracked ceiling, imagining what a mansion looked like. Gold doors. A swimming pool bigger than their whole building. Rooms so large you could shout and hear your own echo. She imagined fancy chandeliers and shiny floors and tables that never wobbled.
She had no idea what she’d really find.
A girl her age, hurting, alone, and terrified.
And how, by the end of the week, a seven-year-old girl with braids and a big heart would quietly become a hero.
The next morning, Sky woke up before the alarm. She pulled on her best dress, the yellow one with tiny flowers. Her mom braided her hair extra carefully, threading in bright beads she’d saved for special days.
In the car, Sky pressed her face against the passenger window as the city changed around them—small apartments giving way to bigger houses, then gated estates with lawns that looked like they never saw kids running across them.