The first time someone hurt her, she didn't understand what was happening.
She was only a child.
The person was one of the boys who worked with them, someone she had seen around and never imagined she needed to fear.
Afterward, she carried the memory quietly.
But unlike some of the things that would happen later, this time she somehow found the courage to tell Grandma.
It wasn't easy.
She struggled to find the words, and even when she finally spoke, she couldn't explain everything.
Grandma listened.
And the moment she understood what had happened, her gentle expression changed.
She was angry.
Not at the little girl.
At the person who had hurt her.
Grandma didn't tell her to keep quiet. She didn't tell her it was her fault.
She acted.
She went to the school and confronted the boy and his parents. The matter became known, and eventually, the boy was made to flee to another country.
For the little girl, it was proof that someone believed her.
Someone had stood up for her.
Someone had protected her.
But there was another secret.
One involving her cousin.
That one stayed locked inside her.
She couldn't bring herself to tell Grandma.
Every time she thought about saying it, the words disappeared.
She didn't know how to explain what had happened.
She didn't know what everyone would think.
And most of all, she didn't know how to face Grandma and say that someone from her own family had also crossed a boundary that should never have been crossed.
So she said nothing.
Grandma thought she knew what the little girl had been through.
She didn't.
There was another wound hidden beneath the first.
And the little girl carried it alone.
She continued smiling.
She continued playing.
She continued being the child everyone saw.
But inside her was a secret she couldn't name.
One she would carry far beyond childhood.