I cry. I wake from my fitful sleep to hear crying other than my own. It is coming from my children. They come to me. I hold them tight and let them sob. I ask what frightens them so. They are afraid; afraid of their nightmares where a dark, shadowy figure has crept into the shelter and is chasing them... sometimes with a gun... sometimes with their father's face.... sometimes with no face at all.

"We are going from shelter to shelter, Mommy. There is no end to it. We are never going to go to the beach or Water Country, or camping or to Grammy's house again, are we? Why do they hate us so? Why don't they want us anymore? Why does Dad want to hurt us? Why Mom? Why?"

"I'm certain it's nothing you've done, angels. It's me. I've upset them all somehow. They love you and care about you." I answer.

"But Mom, you've always said that people's actions speak for their feelings.... you know.... that saying you are always quoting... 'Your actions are speaking so loudly I can't hear what you're saying.' Their actions say they don't want us; they don't care."

I don't know how to answer them. I look out the window at the light streaking across the early morning sky and my mind wanders back thirty years or more.