Some children grow up learning to walk. Wren grew up learning to brace. From the moment her mother crouched down and asked, "Who do you want to live with," Wren's childhood split like a fault line. One parent was a storm. The other was shelter. Her mother's love came sharp, unpredictable, and edged with blame. Every broken glass, every missing object, every slammed cabinet became Wren's fault - even when she wasn't in the room. Her father, by contrast, held the world still. He smelled like motor oil and safety, kept KitKats in the fridge just for her, and lifted her onto his shoulders like the world wasn't heavy at all. He called her Birdie - not because she was small, but because she watched everything.
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