Chapter Text
Every newsie has a story to tell. Every one has a reason as to why they ended up at one of the various Newsie Lodges, and why they chose to stay. If you ask them, they might tell you. All of them except for one. Which is why I’m here to tell you for him.
Albert DaSilva grew up in the small cluster of tight-knit apartments on the lower east side of Manhattan. It wasn’t the nicest neighborhood, but it wasn’t the worst. They had a nice tight-knit family, no matter if they had problems sometimes. His father, Gabriel, had immigrated to New York from Portugal in 1853 when he was just a little boy, and met his mother Maeve. They quickly fell in love, and eventually married and found their small hole in the wall where they started their own family. First Albert’s oldest brother, Miguel, then a year later Sean, and finally Albert himself three and a half years after that.
They were happy, satisfied with their minimal life that consisted of work and church and cherished moments together. But there is a season for everything, and eventually their golden years came to an end. Whispers spread over the city about a new disease, one that left you pale and weak. Your lips stained red, and your skin sticking to your bones. Soon it became clear to the redheaded boy that there was something wrong with his mother. Despite being only nine years old, he could sense the tension in his father. He could hear the hushed whispers between him and Miguel at night when he was supposed to be sleeping. Soon she stopped going to work, only leaving the house to take her three children to mass. His father never went anymore.
It was one of these days, a chilly Autumn evening, when his mother took his hand in her gloved one and led him and his brothers out into the street towards the church and he decided to finally ask.
“Mama?” He asked in that unusually soft voice he had. “Why are you always so tired now?”
But all she did was smile gently, the soft wrinkles around her eyes making the blue in them look like it was shining. “It’ll pass.” She said, leading the three boys across the street. And that was the end of that. But later that night when they all got home Albert heard her crying, and Miguel saying something to her in hushed tones so he couldn’t understand it even through the thin walls. But when he came back into their shared room he looked sad.
Eventually he understood without anyone telling him what was wrong with mama. She was sick. But unlike what she had told him, it wasn’t getting better. In fact, after a while she stopped getting out of bed. Miguel took them to mass now because they didn’t see their father very often. He was always working. The three of them took turns caring for their mother, washing her long red hair that looked so much like Albert’s own and bringing her soup that was supposed to strengthen her. She told Albert not to worry, but he did anyway. Often crawling out of bed when he couldn’t sleep and curling up with her instead. Just encase it was the last time he could.
He wasn’t wrong to worry either.