The only thing that saves her from being the lowest of the low is that she's legitimate. And her mother owns their house out and out. Her parents were happily married before a building site accident took her carpenter father away. He still ain't been released from the Halls yet, apparently he committed some crime they didn't know about, and has to face his punishment.
But his punishment is punishing his wife and kid too.
How can that be fair?
Anairë grasps at the memories that she has of her father, and hoards them. She watches her mother slowly wither, bereft of the one born to sing the song of her soul; the other part of her, made for her as those unbegotten in Cuivienen were made for one another.
Anairë is poisoned against the Valar early, and that poisoning will leave it's subtle mark on the ages to follow.
Anairë is the equivalent of six when her father dies, the equivalent of eight when they find out he wont be coming back any time soon. She's the equivalent of nine when her mother realises that they're going to lose the home Anairë's father built, if she does not find money fast, and is still about that when her mother becomes a 'blossom' in a 'Flower House.'
It's a lesson in humiliation and the unfairness of life. And Anairë burns at the injustice, at how her mother is not worthy of being talked to by fishmongers who reek of their wares, or of how they're turned away from shops even though their money is good.
Only her mother's income source has changed. Not her mother. Her mother is still sweet, and beautiful, and good, and warm, and loving in all the ways that Anairë desperately reaches out for.
They're at the lowest of society now.
The only way they can go is up, and up Anairë will go.