Growing up, my home was a sanctuary of silence most of the time. Sometimes comforting. Sometimes not.

The muffled hum of the city, the quiet ticking of the worn-out clock, the soft rustle of pages as I lost myself in fantasy worlds from the library. I was always alone. Alone, but not always lonely. There was something comforting about the predictable stillness. I knew I could go a couple of blocks up the street and find Albert to hang out, after all.

Mom worked as a janitor at Pewterstone City Hospital, a grueling job that kept her away from sunrise to past sunset.

I remember watching her from my spot on the threadbare couch, my half-asleep mind trying to etch each detail of her into memory. The way she would tie her hair up, the tired smile she would flash me before stepping out the door in that uniform, the heaviness of her footsteps that didn’t match the light in her eyes.

The sound of the front door closing in the early morning hours was as regular as the sunrise. When I was younger, I’d pretend to sleep, my eyes squeezed shut as I listened to her approaching footsteps.

The aroma of her hurriedly made sandwiches, the softness of her faded hand-me-down shirts that I’d wear to sleep, the echo of her love in our small apartment — that was my mother to me. An invisible presence, a whispering wind, always there, but not quite.

In the quiet that she left behind, I would find myself echoing her routine. Cleaning the already spotless counters, tidying our small living space, cooking whatever scraps we had for when she would return.

Her absence was a tangible presence in our home, like a missing puzzle piece. But on the rare days when she didn’t have to work, our apartment would transform. The air would feel lighter, the walls less constricting, the silence less suffocating.

On those days, we would sit together on our worn-out couch, our hands busy with needle and thread as we tried to extend the life of our meager wardrobe. She would hum old lullabies under her breath, her fingers moving deftly over the fabric. And in those moments, we weren't just mother and daughter; we were teammates, survivors in the game of life.

On certain rare golden afternoons, she'd be there, her tired eyes sparkling with a warmth that outshone the setting sun. She'd pull me into her lap, her fingers running through my hair as her long brown locks draped over my shoulders. Her voice was a soothing balm as she read to me from the books we’d borrowed.

“What’s this about?” I would ask, eyes gleaming curiously.

“A world of magic, of courage and of heroes, Sienna," she'd say, reading old cheesy fantasy stories to me. "This is a world where you can stand up to your fears and fight for what is right.”

Sometimes, I found my younger self grappling with unanswered questions. Why was Mom always so tired? Why did she look at me like I was her biggest regret and her proudest achievement all at once?

I was a precocious child. That's what everyone was always quick to point out. Somehow, I understood that both emotions ran through my mother at once.

Beneath the harmony, a silent tension always lingered. I'd catch her looking at me with an inexplicable sadness in her eyes. I often wondered if she regretted the choices she made, if she wished for a different life — for both of us.

By the time I hit adolescence, the golden afternoons became fewer and far between. The sanctuary of silence had turned into a hollow echoing loneliness that was difficult to ignore. I missed her, even though she was never really gone.

Then, we began to fight.

Our conversations became short, the silences longer, a quiet tension replacing the peaceful tranquility of our earlier years. I could see the dark circles under her eyes, hear the heavy sighs she tried to stifle, and feel the strain in her hugs. It was as if we were moving on two parallel tracks, unable to meet.

And there were the arguments, sparked by the most trivial of things — a misplaced book, a missed call. Each word was like a crack in the once solid foundation of our relationship. She was tired, I was growing, and somewhere in the middle, we were both losing each other.

I began to resent her absence, her apparent indifference.

Why wasn't she there for me like the other moms? Why was she always working, always tired? I wished for her to be there, to be more present, to see me as I was growing, changing.

But I noticed her trying. Trying to be there more, trying to understand me, but somehow we couldn't find a common language. It was like we were trapped in a dance of misunderstandings, each step taking us further apart. I saw how her shoulders would slump when I pulled away from her touch, the look of helplessness when I slammed the door to my room after yet another fight.

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And then, there were those moments - those odd, out-of-place moments - when I would catch her looking at me with something more than tiredness in her eyes. It was a kind of haunted, faraway look that I couldn't decipher. As if she was seeing something else when she looked at me, something that filled her with dread.

I never understood it. I could never put a finger on it. It was an emotion too complex for a teenager trying to figure out her own emotions. And instead of approaching her, I let my resentment build, creating an unspoken wall between us.

Life carried on like that, and before we knew it, we were living under the same roof like strangers. In the morning, I'd wake to an empty apartment. In the evening, I'd return to the same. The sound of the front door closing was my lullaby, the sight of her tired eyes my morning greeting. The books we used to read lay untouched, gathering dust on our tiny bookshelf. Some days, I didn’t even have food to eat. She’d spend days at a time away from home, leaving me with some cash, and I’d have to make it last until she came back.

As much as I wanted to hate her for the growing distance, I couldn't. Despite everything, despite our strained relationship, I knew she was doing her best for me. The late-night jobs, the constant exhaustion - it was all for me. Even though it meant fewer golden afternoons, even though it meant feeling alone, I knew she was sacrificing herself for my dreams. Her unspoken love was a constant, like the beating of my heart.

I didn't want it to be like this. I yearned for the golden afternoons, the lullabies, the shared laughter. I wanted to understand her, to erase the strain etched in her face, the tiredness in her bones.

But things began to shift irreparably for the worse when I received the acceptance letter that would send me to Kaleidoscope City.

I remember holding the crisp envelope in my hands, my heart pounding like a war drum. I remember the look in her eyes when I finally showed her the letter. The anger and disbelief clashing in her gaze, her mouth opening and closing, struggling to form words.

"No, Sienna," she said, her voice cold and distant. "You're not going."

"I don't understand, Mom," I countered. "This is KC High we're talking about. Albert and I both got in. We've been dreaming about this forever."

"But it's too far," she argued, avoiding my eyes. "You're just a child, Sienna. You're not ready for this, and we can’t afford it."

I remember the sting of her words. Just a child? I had been handling everything on my own for years. Cooking, cleaning, studying. Alone. I had been more of an adult than any kid should be.

"I got a full ride, mom. With a stipend!" I snapped back, waving the letter in front of her, "Everything will be taken care of."

"And leave me here alone?" She replied, a trace of vulnerability slipping through her hardened exterior. "Sienna, I can't lose you too."

"Is that what this is about? You don’t want to be alone?” I questioned, my frustration reaching its peak. “Well, what about me, mom? What about my dreams? What about all the days I spent alone in this apartment and hungry because you were too busy working? I thought you were doing all this for me. For my future. That’s what you always told me!"

"It's not about that, Sienna," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "I just... I just don't want you to get hurt. Even the people that support the Knights can get hurt. I never spoke about it, but your father… he.”

She cut herself off, biting her lip as if regretting her words. I'd never heard her speak about my father before. It was a subject we both avoided like the plague, a gaping wound in our relationship that neither of us knew how to heal. But now, with the unspoken words hanging between us, I felt a sudden surge of curiosity.

"He what, Mom?" I asked, my voice gentler than I intended. Her eyes met mine, a flicker of something dark and painful crossing her face.

"He was hurt. Because of me. Because of... everything," she replied, her voice choked with emotion. The words were so cryptic, so filled with hidden meanings that I couldn’t grasp. My mind was spinning, desperately trying to connect the dots.

"Because of you?" I questioned, a harsh edge to my voice. My anger was now tainted with confusion. "What does that even mean, Mom?"

"I can't...I can't tell you, Sienna. Please," she pleaded, her eyes begging me to let it go. "I can't lose you too. Please."

"But you're losing me anyway," I shot back, the words leaving my mouth before I could stop them.

She flinched as if I'd physically struck her.

The argument escalated, words firing like missiles as the barriers between us crumbled. That was our breaking point, the moment our strained relationship finally snapped.

In the end, I left for KC High with Albert after several tense weeks, carrying the weight of my mother’s silence and the mystery surrounding my father.

We boarded the train without a proper goodbye, leaving behind the tiny apartment that had been my world. Leaving behind a mother who was more of a ghost than a parent.

And in that moment, I didn't know if I was running towards a brighter future or away from a past I didn't understand.

What I did know was that I was leaving behind a part of me, a piece of my heart that would always be tied to the small apartment and the woman who raised me. Despite our differences, despite the strained relationship, she was my mother. And no matter how far I traveled, I knew I could never truly leave her behind.

Despite everything, I loved her.

My dreams of becoming a hero like in those old books I read, and in the comics Albert loaned me. Of being chosen as a Magical Knight was just that - a dream. But I could fulfill those dreams in a different way by doing my part to keep society safe. That in itself, counted for a dream.

A dream that seemed to trigger a strange, haunted look in my mother's eyes, as if she knew something I didn't.

I remembered looking back one last time before I left.

She was standing there, watching us go, her figure small and lonely against the backdrop of our dilapidated apartment building. I didn't know then that it would be the last time I'd see her for a while.

Looking back now, I wish I had understood her better, had seen the fear in her eyes for what it was. A fear not of letting me go, but a fear of the path I was unknowingly starting to tread.

If only I had known.

But as we all know, hindsight is always 20/20.