"A Morning of Grace"
The soft golden light of dawn crept through the curtains, gently coaxing me awake.
For a moment, I just lay there, the silence around me oddly soothing after the stormy night before.
There was a heaviness still lingering in my chest, a bruise that hadn't fully healed, but I didn't want to carry that weight into the new day.
Not when there were people under this roof who loved me, despite misunderstandings, despite expectations, and not when Daniel had stayed by my side through it all.
So I slipped out of bed quietly, still wearing Daniel's oversized hoodie that had somehow found its way over me in the middle of the night.
It carried his scent, faint traces of cologne and warmth, and wrapped me in comfort I didn't know I needed.
I padded softly into the kitchen, the house still sleeping, peaceful.
I moved with quiet purpose, pulling out pans and ingredients.
The rhythm of breakfast-making grounded me, eggs cracking, bread toasting, the sizzle of butter in a hot skillet.
Its aroma slowly fills the house.
Maybe I couldn't fix everything with one meal, but I could start the day with something gentle. Something forgiving.
As the eggs fluffed and the aroma thickened, I set the table neatly, folding napkins just right, lining cups in place.
I even poured a little honey into the tea, the way my dad liked it, and added a splash of milk for Daniel, just how he took his.
I paused for a moment, hands resting on the counter, and let myself breathe.
The kitchen door creaked open softly.
I turned around to find Daniel standing there, hair tousled, eyes still sleepy, but filled with something tender.
"You're up early," he said, voice husky from sleep.
I smiled faintly, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear. "I figured I owed everyone a calm morning."
He walked over, wrapping his arms around me from behind.
"You don't owe anyone anything, Nuella. But this… this means something.
Especially after last night."
I leaned into his embrace, letting his warmth soak through the last traces of hurt.
Footsteps followed. My mom was the next to enter, looking surprised at the spread.
"You cooked?" she asked, her voice still gentle from the night before.
"Yeah," I said, turning to her. "Thought it might be nice."
She walked over, placed a hand on my cheek, and smiled with a kind of softness I hadn't seen in years. "It is."
Soon, my brother stumbled in, eyes lighting up at the sight of toast and eggs, muttering something about how I should start a breakfast business.
Then my dad entered, quiet as ever, moving slowly but steadily.
He didn't say anything at first, just sat down, looking at his cup of tea. But then he nodded.
And for now, that was enough.
We sat, we ate, we shared little moments, a joke from Daniel, a comment from my sister, my mom humming softly.
Everything wasn't perfect. But sometimes, peace came in little acts like a well-made cup of tea, the warmth of a hoodie, or the simple choice to greet a new day with hope.
And that morning, in the quiet of my family's kitchen, surrounded by those who mattered most, I let the past night go… and chose to move forward.
"The Weight of What Was Never Said"
Just when I thought I could forget everything that happened the night before, the quiet of the afternoon wrapped itself around me like a false sense of peace.
I had decided it was time to speak to my dad, to try, at least.
I wasn't expecting much, but silence was beginning to suffocate me, and maybe, just maybe, he'd be willing to listen this time.
My footsteps were soft as I approached their bedroom, but as I reached for the door, voices behind it froze me in place.
"You always support this girl," my father said, his voice sharp, accusing.
My mother's voice rose strong, unwavering. "Of course I do! She's my beloved daughter.
I love both our kids. I'm not like you."
"I wish she were never my daughter," he said bitterly.
My heart stopped. The world tilted under my feet.
I pushed the door open slowly, my hands trembling. They both turned to me, startled, guilty, silent.
"Do you hate me that much, Dad?"
I asked, my voice barely a whisper, but thick with pain.
"Like, why do you hate me?
A mistake I made years ago? Something I didn't even do on purpose?"
My voice broke as tears rushed forward.
"I was a child. I was growing, learning, and yes, I messed up in my relationship.
I mingled with the wrong guy. But that was years ago as well.
Why can't you forgive me, as a father?"
My mom moved toward me quickly, her arms reaching. "Nuella, don't say that. Your dad loves you, he's just..."
"Then why does it feel like he's never cherished me?" I cried, stepping away.
"Why do I have to work so hard for him to just... see me?
I left school, important things behind, just to come here, because I was worried.
And he can't even appreciate that."
My mom placed a hand on my arm, her voice shaking. "You didn't cause your brother's death.
It wasn't your fault, my child."
I turned to face my dad again, hoping to find even a flicker of compassion in his eyes.
"I've tried so hard to make you proud," I whispered, "but maybe... I need to go back to where I came from, where I'm loved, without having to earn it."
He stood there, stone-faced. "Then go. For all I care."
The words sliced deeper than any I'd ever heard.
I turned away from them, the ache in my chest unbearable. I stormed into my room, my tears streaming.
Daniel was standing by the window, startled, concern washing over his face.
"Nuella... what happened?"
"He said he wished I were never his daughter," I sobbed, struggling to breathe through the pain.
"That was harsh," Daniel said softly, walking toward me.
"But... we can't just leave like this. What about your mom?"
"I'm done, Daniel." I reached for his bag and mine, trying to steady my trembling hands.
"He doesn't want me here. I shouldn't have come."
As we got downstairs, my mom was waiting, blocking the door, her eyes red.
"Nuella, you can't leave like this. Please."
"Mom, I came down here for him. Not for myself.
I had important things back at school, presentations, and deadlines. And I left it all, because I care.
But it doesn't matter to him."
Daniel spoke gently. "You asked for three days. Let's just stay the rest of the day... for your mom."
"Yes, my baby," my mom whispered. "Just don't mind your dad. He's hurting too... in his way."
They both took the bags from my hand. I couldn't stop the tears.
My chest felt hollow, my breath shaky.
Later that evening, Daniel offered to take me out for a ride to clear my head.
The breeze was cool as we drove with the windows down.
Silence sat between us for a while, heavy and necessary. At some point, tears began falling again, as quiet and relentless as rain.
He pulled over to the side of the road, somewhere secluded, and turned to me. "Talk to me," he said softly.
"I was just a kid," I began, wiping my tears.
"When mom got pregnant again, after me, everyone was excited... especially my dad.
He wanted a boy so badly.
He prayed, hoped... believed that the boy would carry on his legacy.
Then tragedy happened. Mom lost the baby. And from then... she couldn't conceive again."
I swallowed, blinking fast. "He blames me for that. For the stress I caused. The fights.
The pain. Mom was trying to save me, but she fell instead. He believes I ruined everything because of me; he never got the son he wanted.
And now... I'm just a reminder of what he lost."
Daniel didn't say anything at first.
"He simply leaned in and pulled me into his arms, holding me tightly against his chest.
"You didn't cause that," he whispered into my hair. "You were a child.
And what happened was never your fault."
His hand moved slowly through my hair, calming my storm.
I looked up, our eyes locking in the soft glow of sunset.
Then, without a word, he leaned in and kissed me deeply, passionately, like he was pouring every ounce of love into me to fill the spaces where I felt hollow.
I kissed him back, surrendering to the moment, forgetting we were outside, lost in the safety of his embrace, the warmth of his lips, and the promise in his eyes.
"Don't cry anymore," he said, smiling playfully, wiping the tear trailing down my cheek.
"You know Saraph will kill me if she finds out you've been sad and I didn't fix it."
I laughed, genuinely, finally.
We drove around a little longer, letting the breeze wash over us. We talked. We laughed. We breathed.
When we returned home, I saw my father sitting in the living room. He glanced at me, but I walked past him in silence.
For now... I needed space.
And for the first time in a long time, I chose me.
"When Hearts Begin to Understand"
The tension in the house still lingered like a fog, even after the emotional drive with Daniel.
I tried to keep my distance, but something had shifted, something subtle, yet undeniable.
I could feel it in the way Daniel quietly observed my father, and the way my mother moved around the house, silently worried, hopeful.
Later that afternoon, a soft knock came on my bedroom door.
It opened slightly, and my sister Olive peeked in.
"Nuella," she whispered, "Come downstairs... I think something is happening."
I followed her cautiously to the living room.
There, standing with a quiet resolve, were my mother, Olive, and Daniel, all facing my father, who was seated, silent and stone-faced.
Daniel stepped forward first.
"Sir," he said, voice calm but firm, "I know this is a family matter.
And I know I might not have the right to speak on it fully.
But… I care deeply for Nuella. I love her. And I want to be part of this family, not just for her, but because I believe in what you all mean to each other."
My father looked up slowly, his brows furrowed. Daniel continued.
"Seeing her sad… it breaks me. I know I'm not your son. But I see her. I know her.
She's kind, strong, brilliant, and incredibly resilient.
I know she made mistakes, who hasn't? But they were in the past.
Please, sir… try to forgive her. Give her a chance to breathe again in her own home."
Then, gently, Daniel added, "And if it's a son you've always wanted, I know I can never fill that space…
But Olive and Nuella can be the son you've always wished for.
They are strong, she's grounded. Gender doesn't define legacy, character does."
My father's lips tightened. His voice came low and heavy.
"I get your point, my son," he said, eyes still on the floor.
"But you don't understand the pain of wanting something so badly… a son to carry the family name, to be my strength in old age, to protect the legacy I've built.
And watching that dream slip through my fingers not once, but completely. That pain eats at you."
The room was silent for a beat before Olive stepped forward. Her voice shook with emotion.
"Daddy, I get it," she said. "But we're not your failures.
I may not be a boy, but I'm strong. And if you keep treating us like we're not enough because we're girls, then I don't know if I can keep coming back to this house."
He looked up at her, startled.
"Nuella is not me," she continued. "Stop comparing her to anyone.
She is Nuella. Unique. Intelligent. Strong. Friendly. She's loving, too, if you haven't noticed, that's your daughter.
That's your blood. That's your legacy.
You say you want a son to stand up for the family? She's been standing for this family all along."
There was a deep pause. My mom walked over, gently placing her hand on his shoulder.
"She's right," she said softly.
"All these years, Nuella has been bending over backward just to see a smile on your face.
But you were too angry at the past to see the beauty of the present.
You lost a child. We both did. But don't lose the ones still here."
My father blinked, as if waking from a long sleep.
His eyes, those usually cold and unreadable, began to soften.
"I never hated her," he said, voice cracking ever so slightly. "I was scared.
Scared of loving again and losing again.
Scared that she'd bring shame, not pride. Scared that history would repeat itself."
"But it hasn't," I finally spoke, stepping forward.
"I'm still here. I've made mistakes, yes. But I've learned. I've grown. And all I've ever wanted was for you to see that I am not broken.
I'm still your daughter. I still love you."
His lips trembled. And for the first time in years, his eyes locked with mine and didn't look away.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I don't know how to be soft anymore. But maybe… I can try."
Daniel took my hand. My mother exhaled in relief. Olive walked over and gave our father a hug that surprised him.
It was the beginning of healing.
The start of something not perfect, but real.
And that, for me, was enough.