The innocence of a child is fragile, meant to be kept protected and unbroken. As a child, you experience the world as full of love and joy. Maybe it's because your small size and cuteness give you an edge with most adults. Maybe it's the freedom that exudes from your very core—the freedom to walk, to run, to play in the grass, the dirt, even the mud.
Because you're a child, you could play with a ball in your backyard and see a friendly man outside, with what looks like his friends, telling you to open the gate. And you do. Because you're a child.
And then more of them swarm in. Your family's friends lie on the floor, crying, everything hot enough to burn your skin.
As it all crashes down, you wonder why. Why your father won't speak, won't pat you on the back, and tell you his stories. Why your mother won't cuddle you, won't give you her affectionate kisses, or whisper in your ear that she loves you.
And then it hits you: the reason. The real reason. You are a child.