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Not neatly trimmed. Not even shaved by someone who cared whether she was frightened. Uneven patches of rough stubble covered her scalp. Red scrape marks showed where the clippers had cut too close. A thin line of dried blood rested above her left ear.
She lifted her face.
That was the moment something inside me shattered — not loudly, not dramatically, not with screaming. It broke cold. It broke clean. It broke in the silent place inside a mother where mercy once lived.
Behind me, Judith stood in the hallway holding electric clippers in one hand and a garbage bag in the other.
“She needed a lesson,” she said.
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