The home was humble—one of those small, quiet places that felt like it had a heart of its own.
Its walls were thin but clean, and its air carried the warmth of a life lived simply. The living room and kitchen were one, divided only by faded curtains that swayed whenever a breeze slipped through the open window. A small wooden table stood near the center, two little stools tucked beside it. Beyond that, another curtain marked the sleeping area, where a single bed rested—soft, old, but carefully made.
The scent of rice stew filled the space, warm and comforting.
At the table, little Owen sat with a napkin tied neatly around his neck, his expression serious, as if dinner were an important ceremony. Beside him, his younger sister Kate swung her legs restlessly, humming a tune only she seemed to know.
Their mother, Sofia, moved with graceful tiredness—one hand holding a pot, the other steadying the bowls as she ladled steaming portions for each of them. The clink of spoon against bowl echoed faintly in the small room.
"There," she said softly, setting one bowl before Owen, then another before Kate. "Eat before it cools."
The two children didn't need to be told twice. They picked up their spoons, blowing gently before taking bites, their little mouths puffing out as they chewed, eyes squinting at the taste. Kate giggled after each gulp, as though every spoonful was a new adventure. Owen ate slower, careful but content, the kind of focus only a child trying to please his mother could have.
Sofia sat opposite them, resting her chin on her hand. She didn't eat. She just watched them—their tiny hands gripping spoons, their messy faces, the quiet joy that filled the room.
(Owen's narration)
Back then, even though the place we lived in wasn't much, I loved it. The mornings were cold, the walls were old, and sometimes we ran out of heating oil—but to me, that house was home.
Every dawn, I'd wake up to the smell of my mother's cooking. Her name was Sofia, and to me she was everything—sunlight, warmth, safety. My sister Kate was the little spark that made the world fun. Together, they made every day feel worth waking up to.
It didn't matter that we didn't have much. When my mother smiled, it felt like we had the world.
Little Owen finished his meal first, placing his spoon neatly on the side of the bowl. He looked up and stared at his mother—his eyes wide, bright. For a moment, something shimmered in them, something that wasn't really there: a faint rainbow arching across the dim room, coloring everything in soft gold and blue.
He smiled wide, showing the gaps between his baby teeth.
Sofia laughed quietly, brushing her son's hair with her hand. "You're smiling again, my little dreamer."
"Me too!" Kate chirped, leaning over.
Sofia chuckled and reached out to pat her daughter's head too.
Kate tilted her chin, flashing her brother a triumphant grin, her small eyes glinting mischievously as if to say, See? Mom loves me too.
Owen frowned playfully, puffing his cheeks, then suddenly stood on his chair, pointing a finger dramatically toward the ceiling. "When I grow up, I'll be a knight in shining armor for Mother!" he declared proudly. "And Kate will stay home cooking!"
Kate's jaw dropped in exaggerated horror. Sofia's brows rose, though amusement tugged at her lips.
"That's not a nice thing to say, Owen," she said gently, her voice carrying both authority and warmth.
"But it's true," Owen argued, cheeks puffed again. "When Kate grows up, she'll marry and go away. But I'll stay with you forever, Mom!"
Sofia blinked, caught off guard. "And where did you learn something like that?"
Owen looked down, shy now. His fingers twirled the edge of his napkin. "I read it… in a storybook."
Kate leaned closer, smirking. "Ohhh, does our brave knight love Mommy too much?"
Owen's cheeks flared pink. "N-no! That's not what I meant!"
Kate burst into giggles, hiding her mouth behind her spoon.
Sofia couldn't help but laugh—quiet and full of affection. "You two talk like old souls trapped in little bodies," she said. "I swear, sometimes you sound wiser than me."
She leaned in, wrapping her arms around both children, pulling them close into a warm embrace.
"Mom!" Owen squirmed, face red. "Come on, this is embarrassing!"
Kate made a little squeak, her tiny nose scrunching adorably. "Mommy, you're squishing me!"
Sofia just smiled, tightening her arms. "Oh, now you're shy? But weren't you both begging for hugs this morning?"
"I—I wasn't!" Owen stammered, flailing his arms.
Kate froze, eyes wide, caught mid-lie. Her lips pursed in that guilty way only children could manage—like a little girl caught sneaking treats from a pickle jar.
Sofia laughed softly, brushing her daughter's cheek. "My two little angels," she murmured. She kissed them both—one smooch each—leaving faint prints on their reddened faces. "Kate, Arnold… you're my precious blessings. My whole world."
Both children went quiet, their small arms wrapping around her waist. The room felt impossibly full in that moment—of light, of love, of something eternal.
(Owen's narration)
That was the moment I always remember. The warmth. The sound of her laugh. The way the world outside didn't matter when we were together.
There was something strange about those days—like an invisible veil around us, shielding us from everything ugly. I used to think that the feeling I had then… that tender, glowing peace… would last forever.
But life doesn't keep promises like that.
That house was my paradise. My mother—she built that paradise for us. She made it feel like the world was good, that love was real and infinite. But later, I learned it was just an illusion. A fragile one. The real world doesn't care about fairy tales. It's a field of pain disguised as perfection.
And me… I grew up trapped between those two worlds—the one she made for me, and the one that tore it apart.
The moment hung, still and golden—until something broke it.
Sofia's smile wavered. Her head tilted slightly, then she sniffled. A single dark line traced from her nose, trailing down to her lip.
"Mom?" Owen blinked.
Kate pointed, her small voice anxious. "Mommy, you're bleeding!"
Sofia touched her face, startled, then quickly stood. "Oh, it's nothing. Don't worry, my darlings."
She released them from her embrace and crossed to the kitchen sink. The curtain rustled as she moved.
Owen and Kate watched her, confusion clouding their small faces.
Her back was turned to them. She turned on the tap, the sound of running water filling the silence. She splashed her face, once, twice, again—each motion slightly trembling. Her shoulders stiffened.
Then, quietly, she reached into her pocket. Two small pills. She slipped them into her mouth, took a quick gulp from the tap, and straightened.
The children didn't see it. They just saw their mother hunched slightly, hands gripping the edge of the sink, her body shaking faintly before she stilled again.
The bleeding stopped. She turned off the tap, took a long breath, then turned around.
Her expression had changed—soft again, but her smile now carried something behind it, something only an adult could notice.
She crouched, resting her hands on her knees, her eyes glimmering with an almost forced calm. "See?" she said lightly. "All better."
(Owen's narration)
At that age, I didn't know what I was seeing. I didn't understand the tremor in her hands or the way her smile looked… fragile.
Now, looking back, I know that was the first crack—the beginning of the truth breaking through the dream she'd built for us.
That day, the illusion began to crumble. But I was still too young. Even if I'd known what was happening… I couldn't have stopped what came after.
Sofia walked back to them, her steps slower this time, but her voice soft as ever. "You two worry too much," she teased, brushing her hair aside. She bent down, gently ruffling their heads.
Her giggle was light, but her eyes glistened faintly in the dim light.
"My little ones," she whispered, "you look so cute when you worry about me."
Owen and Kate just stared up at her, confusion written across their faces. Their eyes were wide, innocent, full of unspoken questions they couldn't yet form.
Kate's lips puckered slightly, her head tilted like a kitten trying to understand something new. Owen's brows drew together, his mouth opening halfway as if to speak, but no words came.
Sofia's laughter filled the air once more—gentle, echoing softly against the thin walls of their tiny home.
The three of them stood there—two small children and a mother fighting to hold the world together with her smile.
And outside, the night wrapped around the house, quiet and deep, as if protecting one last memory of warmth before the world turned cold.