The morning sun streamed through the lace curtains, casting patterns on the kitchen table. Ruth Simmons sat with her hands wrapped around a cup of coffee, the aroma doing little to calm the storm in her chest. On the table beside her, two letters lay side by side like rivals in a duel.

One was the flyer for tonight’s meeting at the church—a gathering of organizers planning the next steps for the Montgomery Bus Boycott. The other was a note slipped under her door last night, its scrawled warning still fresh in her mind: “Stay quiet, or your family pays.”

From the other room came the sound of her daughter, Clara, humming a tune as she braided her hair. Ruth’s husband, Marcus, had already left for the factory, unaware of the note or the weight it carried.

Ruth closed her eyes. She could see the faces of those who had been arrested, beaten, humiliated. She remembered the fire in her own voice as she led chants at last week’s march. She had always known the risks, but now the threat had a name: her family.

At noon, Ruth walked to the corner store. The streets were quieter than usual, neighbors glancing nervously from behind curtains. She exchanged a tense nod with Mr. Harris, who had also received threats but still boarded the bus that first morning of the boycott.

"Ruth."

The voice startled her. It was Ella Mae, her closest friend and a fellow organizer, stepping out of the shadows of the alley.

"Tonight’s meeting," Ella Mae said, her voice low. "We need you there. Dr. King’s counting on all of us."

Ruth’s breath caught. "I got a note," she admitted, pulling the crumpled paper from her pocket.

Ella Mae’s face darkened as she read it. "They’re trying to scare us. That’s all it is."

"And what if it’s not?" Ruth’s voice trembled. "What if Clara—"

"Then what are we fighting for?" Ella Mae interrupted. "If we don’t stand now, Clara grows up in the same world we’re trying to change."

That night, Ruth kissed Clara’s forehead, tucked her into bed, and lingered in the doorway longer than usual. Her heart ached as her daughter’s small voice called out, "Mama, sing me that song you like."

She sang softly, her voice steady even as tears threatened to fall. When Clara drifted to sleep, Ruth slipped on her coat and stepped into the night.

The church was packed, the energy electric despite the ever-present fear. Ruth took her seat in the circle, her voice ringing out with clarity and purpose as they planned the next march.

Outside, the threats loomed like storm clouds. But Ruth knew this was the path she had to take—for Clara, for Marcus, for the world they all deserved.