Soft, scraping sounds came from behind the door.From where I stood, I could see through the small window a little girl, so thin she looked like nothing but skin and bones, collapsed beside the door. With what little strength she had left, she clawed weakly at the wood, her movements slow and desperate.Hunger had already stolen her voice. Even forcing her eyelids open took everything she had.Starving to death was an unbearably cruel process, and yet, even then, her lips were still moving faintly.It was clear that she was silently calling for her mother.In her short six years of life, she had lived under Desmond's cruelty, under her own mother's hatred, and under a deep resentment toward a father she had never once met.She was so small, and she had thought about it again and again, unable to understand.Why did her mother not love her?Outside the door, the father was still sobbing and begging, swearing and cursing, doing everything he could to convince Winnie that I was
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