Two

Her children don’t speak her language. The oldest was younger than the youngest when they left home. She tells them she fled because she feared for her life, that the bad men in uniforms would come and get them and separate them from each other forever and ever. Really, she worried that her husband would discover that the youngest had a different father. Sometimes, though, shame is worse than being beaten in the street.
And sometimes she confesses her sins to them while they sleep, in the tongue of her mother. As she does, she can feel the old words peeling away, replaced by new.
All she ever taught them was how to say, “I love you.” When they say it, they giggle and crinkle their noses because it sounds silly to them.
With some luck, that may be enough.