Our Little World
1202 Words
There was a certain kind of peace that existed inside their home.
It wasn't perfect.
There were arguments sometimes. There were mornings when everyone was running late, evenings when dinner wasn't ready on time, and days when her parents were too tired to do anything except sit quietly after a long day.
But to her, none of that mattered.
Home was still home.
It was where she knew where everything belonged. It was where her mother's voice could be heard from the kitchen early in the morning, where her father's laughter filled the living room in the evenings, and where she could move from one room to another without ever wondering whether she belonged there.
She did.
She was their first daughter.
Their first little girl.
And she grew up believing that family meant having a place where she would always be welcomed.
Her parents had different ways of loving her.
Her mother was gentle but firm. She was the one who reminded her to eat properly, arrange her books, finish her homework, and prepare her uniform before going to bed.
Her father was different.
He was more playful.
If her mother said, "Go and sleep," her father was the one who would whisper, "Five more minutes."
If her mother told her not to make a mess, her father was sometimes the reason there was a mess in the first place.
They had their own little world.
A world made of inside jokes, silly arguments, weekend outings, family dinners, and ordinary moments that seemed insignificant at the time.
Saturday mornings were especially special.
There was no rush to wake up for school. No hurried breakfast. No school uniform waiting on the back of a chair.
She would sometimes remain in bed longer than usual, listening to the sounds coming from the kitchen.
Her mother would be preparing breakfast while her father moved around the house.
The smell of food would slowly fill the rooms.
Eventually, someone would call her name.
And she would pretend not to hear.
"She's still sleeping?" her father would ask.
Her mother would laugh.
"Go and wake your daughter."
He would walk toward her room, already knowing exactly what he would find.
He would pull the curtains open.
She would immediately cover her face with the blanket.
"Wake up."
"No."
"It's morning."
"I know."
"Then get up."
"I don't want to."
He would pretend to sound serious.
"Should I carry you?"
That was always enough to make her sit up.
"No!"
He would laugh.
"Then get yourself out of bed."
Those mornings were ordinary.
But ordinary was beautiful when you were a child.
There were also evenings when the entire family sat together to watch television.
She rarely cared about what was playing.
She cared about sitting between her parents.
Sometimes she rested her head on her mother's shoulder while her feet rested against her father's leg.
Sometimes her father complained that she was taking up too much space.
She would move closer to him just to annoy him.
"You have your mother," he would say.
"I want you."
And he would pretend to be irritated even though the smile on his face gave him away.
"Fine."
Those moments became part of her understanding of what family was supposed to feel like.
Together.
Safe.
Certain.
She didn't know that some people grew up without that kind of certainty.
She assumed everyone had a home like hers.
Everyone had parents who waited for them.
Everyone had someone to call when they were frightened.
Everyone had a father who would notice when something was wrong.
Her innocence made the world seem simple.
And for a while, it was.
Her parents also made sure she understood the importance of family.
Birthdays were celebrated together.
Holidays meant visiting relatives, taking pictures, eating more food than anyone could finish, and listening to adults talk about things she didn't understand.
Family gatherings could be loud.
There were always children running around, older relatives calling everyone by names that belonged to people who had grown up years ago, and endless conversations happening at the same time.
She loved it.
Whenever she became overwhelmed, she would look for her father.
He always seemed to know where she was.
Sometimes she wondered how he managed it.
No matter how crowded a room became, she could always find his eyes searching for her.
That gave her a strange sense of importance.
She mattered.
Someone was looking for her.
Someone noticed her absence.
Someone would realize if she wasn't there.
It was a feeling she carried quietly.
And perhaps that was why the idea of being forgotten would later hurt her so deeply.
Because she had grown up being remembered.
Her parents weren't wealthy enough to give her everything she wanted, but she rarely felt deprived.
Her father taught her that happiness wasn't always found in expensive things.
Sometimes it was found in a shared meal.
Sometimes it was a joke that only two people understood.
Sometimes it was a ride around the neighbourhood with the windows down.
Sometimes it was simply having everyone home at the same time.
She didn't need much.
She had them.
And that was enough.
As she grew older, the family changed in small ways.
There were new responsibilities.
New expenses.
New expectations.
Life became busier.
But the foundation remained the same.
Or at least, she believed it did.
She never imagined that something as ordinary as a job could change the atmosphere of their home.
She never imagined that financial difficulties could affect more than money.
She never imagined that a person could still be physically present while slowly becoming emotionally distant.
At that age, she had no reason to think about such things.
Her world was still small.
It consisted of school, friends, family, weekend mornings, birthday celebrations, and her father's familiar voice calling her name.
It was a world where problems had solutions.
If something broke, it could be fixed.
If she was sad, someone comforted her.
If she was afraid, someone held her.
If she needed reassurance, she knew where to find it.
She didn't know that some things could break without making a sound.
She didn't know that distance could grow between two people sitting in the same room.
She didn't know that love could remain while its expression slowly disappeared.
She only knew that she was loved.
And for a little girl, that knowledge was enough to make the world feel safe.
She would remember those years later—not because they were extraordinary, but because they were the last years before she learned that life could change without asking permission.
Before she learned that people could love you and still hurt you.
Before she learned that being someone's daughter did not always mean feeling close to them.
Before she began wondering whether love could disappear without anyone saying goodbye.
Back then, she didn't ask questions.
She simply lived.
She laughed loudly.
She ran freely.
She loved without fear.
And inside that small home, surrounded by the people who meant everything to her, she believed their little world would remain exactly as it was.
She had no idea that the first c***k was already closer than she thought.
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