Chapter 80: A Gentle Hand, A Healing Heart

Morning sunlight peeked through the curtains, casting a warm glow across the room as I stirred awake in Mama's embrace. Her arms were wrapped protectively around me, her scent comforting like the softest lullaby. I felt her hand gently stroke my hair, a soothing rhythm that made me want to close my eyes again and drift back into that safe, warm place where nothing could hurt me.

"Good morning, my love," Mama's voice whispered against my forehead as she pressed a kiss there.

I nestled closer, unwilling to leave the warmth of her hold just yet. My sisters' voices were faintly heard outside the bedroom door, already engaged in their usual playful arguments over who would get to hold me first today. It made me smile a little—just a tiny bit.

"Should we stay in bed a little longer?" Mama asked, as if reading my mind. I gave a small nod, and she tightened her embrace.

But despite the warmth surrounding me, my mind drifted to last night—back to that moment when I had placed a puzzle piece next to my father's. My fingers curled into Mama's dress as I thought about it. It was strange, the feeling I had. I didn't know what it was, but it wasn't as scary as before. It wasn't the same cold, heavy thing I always felt in my chest when I thought about him.

A knock at the door interrupted my thoughts, and before Mama could answer, my sisters barged in.

"Sophia! You already held him last night!" Olivia huffed, pulling at her elder sister's arm.

"That doesn't count! I only got five minutes before bedtime!" Sophia shot back.

I blinked as my sisters crowded around me, their warmth and affection making me feel safe as always. Even though I hadn't been with them for long, it felt like I had known them forever. I reached for Olivia, who instantly beamed and scooped me into her arms.

Mama sighed but smiled as she watched them bicker playfully over me. "Be gentle with him," she reminded them, as she always did.

I let them hold me, let them fuss over me because I knew they loved me. And I loved them too.

Later that morning, we were in the garden. It was one of my favorite places—peaceful, full of warmth, where I didn't feel trapped. The sun shone gently, the breeze carried the scent of flowers, and the grass was soft beneath my feet.

I was playing with a small wooden plane that Emily had built for me when I tripped slightly over a small rock. A sharp sting shot through my palm as I caught myself on the ground.

It was barely a scratch. Just a small scrape. But the moment it happened, I heard a collective gasp from my sisters.

"Noah!" Charlotte was the first to reach me, her hands immediately cupping my face, her wide eyes filled with worry.

"Oh no, oh no—" Lily knelt beside me, checking my hands as if I had broken every bone. "He's hurt—"

Mama was already beside me, gently lifting me into her lap, her hands trembling slightly as she inspected my palm. Her face turned pale. "We need the first-aid kit."

I tried to say something, to tell them it didn't really hurt, but the way they looked at me—like I was made of the most delicate glass—I couldn't find the words. They were always like this. Always afraid. Always scared something would happen to me.

And then, I saw him.

Papa.

He had been watching from a few feet away, standing still, uncertain, his hands clenched at his sides. But something in his eyes—something soft and worried—made me freeze.

Then, to my surprise, he stepped forward.

Everyone turned to look at him, the air suddenly thick with tension. My sisters moved protectively, their instinct always to shield me. But Mama, after a long pause, said nothing. She only held me close, watching carefully.

Papa knelt in front of me, his movements slow, like he was afraid I'd run. His hands reached toward mine, then hesitated. His fingers hovered just above my scraped skin, his expression pained.

"Does it hurt?" he asked quietly.

I didn't know why, but I shook my head.

His lips pressed together for a moment before he pulled a small handkerchief from his pocket. It was clean and neatly folded. He carefully dabbed at my palm, his hands steady but gentle.

I stared at his hands. They were bigger than Mama's, rougher, like they had worked hard for a long time. But they were warm, steady, careful.

"I'm sorry," he murmured, still focused on my hand. "I should've been the one to catch you."

I didn't know how to respond. I didn't know what I was supposed to feel. But I didn't pull away.

His fingers trembled slightly when he finished wrapping a small bandage around my palm. He swallowed hard before speaking again. "There. All better."

For a long time, neither of us spoke. The only sound was the distant rustling of leaves, the quiet breaths of my family watching closely.

Then, slowly, I lifted my hand, staring at the bandage. It didn't hurt much, but for some reason, my chest felt tight.

I glanced at him. He was still kneeling there, watching me, waiting for something he probably didn't dare to ask for.

I took a small breath.

"…Thank you," I whispered.

The moment the words left my mouth, Papa's eyes widened. He looked like he wanted to say something, but instead, he simply nodded, his expression unreadable.

Mama gasped softly. My sisters looked at each other in silent shock.

And me? I didn't know why I had said it.

But when I looked down at my bandaged hand, at the warmth that lingered from his touch, I realized something.

Maybe, just maybe… Papa's hands weren't so scary after all.

That night, as I lay in bed, curled against Mama's warmth, I stared at the bandage on my hand. My fingers brushed over it absentmindedly, my mind replaying the moment over and over again.

For the first time, I had let him touch me. For the first time, I had accepted something from him.

I still didn't trust him. I still didn't know if I ever could. But tonight, something had changed. Something small, something fragile, but real.

Maybe trust didn't have to happen all at once. Maybe it could start with just one small step.

And tonight, that step had been taken.