Problems at home:

My mother’s cooking in this couple of months had lost its comforting flavor, and her smiles don’t reach her eyes anymore. It’s clear she’s burdened by something.

While my natural instinct is to remain detached—this wasn’t my world, after all, and I’ll be leaving them behind by the time I’m twelve—curiosity gets the better of me. I’ve overheard their hushed discussions before, muffled and disjointed, but now I can make out the words more clearly.

One night, I hide in a corner, unseen, and listen.

“We need to send him to school,” my mother says, her tone firm but tinged with worry.

“He’s learning fine here! Don’t you see how quickly he’s picking up math?” my father counters.

I was rolling my eyes from my hiding spot. Math? Please. If only they knew I’m coasting on knowledge from my previous life. Their teaching methods are atrocious; I’m practically teaching myself.

“Staying here isn’t good for him. I agreed to this life before I got pregnant, but now...” my mother trails off.

“We can’t sell this place,” my father replies, frustration seeping into his voice. “I’ve tried. We can’t just abandon our home and jobs. What would we even do?”

“Jobs? Home?” My mother’s voice quivers, heavy with restrained emotion. “I hate my job here! I stayed because I love you. I stayed because this was for us. But I’m suffocating, and I can’t watch our son grow up like this.”

Her words hang in the air like a storm about to break, the tension thick enough to choke on. From my hiding spot, I can feel the weight of her unhappiness, every word biting deeper into their already strained relationship.

“I also want to add another thing, Dorion.He is growing too fast and I don’t want him to become an adventurer. I want him to have a bright future without the risk of dying like a bag of meat,” my mother says, her voice trembling but firm.

My father scoffs, his tone dismissive yet trying to stay calm. “Don’t worry. No son of mine will become a suicidal adventurer. He’ll work with me at the construction site.”

“Construction? Is that all you can offer for our son? Think about him, not about you! He needs to go to school and eventually to university!” she snaps.

Wait... University? This world have universities? What a way to screw this Isekai.

“And become a useless punk who counts papers all day and makes items for the rich?” my father counters. “He’d be so clueless he wouldn’t even be able to boil an egg! Here, he’ll grow into a man of strength, a real man. Don’t you see these muscles? These muscles of love and hard work are for you!”

The conversation felt like a loop. Mom insisted I deserved a good education, emphasizing how vital it was for my future. Dad, on the other hand, struggled to make it possible, his voice carrying the weight of unspoken frustration. Every time he proposed a solution, Mom countered with her disapproval, pointing out the flaws in his plan and circling back to her unwavering belief in the importance of education.

The conversation so far was good as long as it was about me, but then in the middle of the conversation.

“Love?” my mother snapped, her voice cutting through his bravado. “You’re telling me that after I caught you flirting with that woman at the market? Does the name Carol sound familiar?”

Oh, wow. Dad really walked into this one. Gorilla arms meet gorilla brains.

“I was not flirting!” he protested, but his voice wavered in each syllable, and I did practically see the sweat forming on his brow. “I was just being a gentleman.”

“Gentleman, huh?” Mom doesn’t let up, her words were slicing like a blade. “Do you think I’m stupid? My friends at the market told me how you accompanied her home the other day while I was late getting back from work. Feeling pity for the poor widow, were you?”

My father gritted his teeth, his voice raised it up defensively. “Your friends are just gossip! They make everyone look bad because they don’t have husbands.”

“Oh, so you’re denying you spoke to her?” Mom asked, direct as ever, her tone daring him to lie.

There’s a beat of silence. Dad knew better than to outright deny it. “No.”

“Convenient.” Mom leaned in for the kill, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “What a coincidence that you happened to speak to the woman that all men in this town are drooling for, and you felt nothing at all.”

“What are you implying?” my father stammered, his usual bravado crumbling under her glare. He was trying to hold his ground, but his voice cracked with tension.

“Nothing,” she replied, her tone flat but loaded with unspoken meaning. “Just don’t do it again.”

And just like that, the argument ended. Or rather, it paused. Mom’s expression made it clear that day that she’s far from done, but she knows pressing further right now would be futile. Dad, meanwhile, looks like he barely made it out alive.

The arguments between my parents continued throughout that year, each one sharper than the last. I could hear their conversations with unsettling clarity. My senses had sharpened with age, and their voices carried the weight of struggles I didn’t yet fully understand.

EighthYear:

At the age of eight, not much seemed to happen. The constant debates about my education had faded away, or at least my dad only nodded in agreement with my mom but made no effort to follow through. I thought the year might end on a quiet, uneventful note.

But on the morning of Christmas Eve, something felt off. My mom's face wasn’t happy, nor was it sad—it was blank, almost distant. She sat quietly in the corner, lost in thought. I told myself it wasn’t a big deal. After all, she’s my mom in this world, and any feelings I had toward her were probably just biological instinct at work. That ache I felt in my chest as I looked at her? I tried to convince myself it wasn’t real, just something forced by my circumstances. So, I tried to ignore it.

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That afternoon, I noticed something unusual. The house felt off, heavier than normal, and the usual hum of activity was missing.

“Food isn’t ready…” I murmured to myself. Mom wasn’t acting like herself.

I thought to ask Dad what was going on, but as I looked around the house, I realized he wasn’t here. That only made things worse—whatever was bothering her was likely tied to him.

Then I heard it—soft sobbing. I knew exactly where it was coming from. Slowly, I walked to the corner of the room where Mom sat, her hands trembling slightly as she wiped at her eyes.

“Mom… why are you crying?” I asked, my voice small but firm.

She didn’t look at me at first. Then, slowly, she turned, her expression strained but composed. “No, Daryn,” she said, her voice unsteady, pausing after every few words. “I’m not crying… I was just… cutting onions.” She said while trying her best to smile.

I wasn’t convinced. She couldn’t fool me, but I decided not to push her. I stood there, unsure whether to leave or press her for the truth. My heart ached as I watched her turn back to her thoughts, still lost in whatever was weighing on her. I turned and began to walk away, each step echoing in the silent room.

Ache.

Ache.

Ache.

Every sound of my shoes against the floor made the ache in my chest grow heavier. I felt the urge to go back, to hug her, to offer her comfort—but then I heard it. A faint bouncing sound.

It was Pachesko. His circuits glowed as he signaled for me to follow him. I hesitated but decided to go.

“What?” I snapped, frustrated at being interrupted.

“What you were about to do would’ve been a bad choice,” he said, his tone smug.

“What do you mean?” I asked, narrowing my eyes at him.

“Going all melancholy melancholy with your new mommy?” he said mockingly, a digital smirk flashing across his surface. Anger flared in me, but before I could lash out, he continued.

“Listen, you’re going to leave this place when you turn twelve. Don’t make things harder for yourself by rooting too deeply in this family. Unless, of course, you want to live a boring, normal life.”

His words cut deep, not because I agreed, but because they forced me to confront the truth I’d been avoiding.

“Of course not!” I snapped, turning away from him. “I want to become an adventurer and have a lot of women!” The bitterness in my voice surprised even me.

I stormed off, leaving my mom behind. That night, she didn’t call me for dinner. I ate a bowl of cereal alone. My dad didn’t come back until two days later. When he did, it was like nothing had happened—no arguments, no explanations. It was as if they were hiding the truth behind closed doors, leaving me to piece together the fragments of my family’s unraveling.

Ninth year:

The day started like any other. My mother seemed quieter, more delicate, like the faintest breeze could knock her over. Still, she wore a warm smile, the same one she always managed to summon for me no matter how exhausted she looked.

She stood by me in the morning, gently placing a small cake on the table. I stared at the words written on it in frosting: Happy Birthday.

My dad was next to her, after the previous christmas he sometimes came home and sometimes he didn't, it seems that we lost some bond. His presence felt like he was on a duty instead of honest love.

"Go on," she said softly, her voice like the faint echo of a melody. "Make a wish and blow out the candles."

I closed my eyes. I don’t remember exactly what I wished for—it was stupid, trivial. Something selfish, like money or girls. Things that felt important to a child who thought the world owed him everything.

When I opened my eyes, I blew out the candles. The room went quiet. Too quiet.

I heard the faintest gasp behind me, a sound so small it could’ve been missed. And then... the sound of something hitting the floor.

I turned.

She was lying there, motionless. Her arms, which had always held me close, now limp at her sides. Her face, so full of love just moments ago, was pale and still.

“Mom?” I called out, my voice trembling. “Mom!”

I started panicking, an ocean of emotions blurred my logic, I could not think straight.

I couldn’t talk but repeated the words to the women who gave me birth.

“Mom!”

My father froze in shock before it shattered into a storm of panic and grief.

“No! No, no, no!” he cried, falling to his knees beside her. “Stay with me! Please!”

I stood there, paralyzed. The Happy Birthday cake sat on the table, mocking me.

The fucking birthday cake was written Happy Birthday in it.

The words seemed cruel now, a bitter joke. My chest tightened, and my legs felt like they’d give out beneath me.

My father scooped her up in his arms, his movements frantic and unsteady. Tears streamed down his face as he looked at me, his voice breaking.

“Stay here,” he said, barely holding himself together. “Don’t worry. She’ll be fine. I promise.”

But his voice wasn’t convincing. Not to me. Not even to himself.

He carried her to the car, the door slamming shut behind them. I was left standing there, staring at the candles on the cake, still faintly smoking. The room felt empty, colder than it had ever been.

I don’t know how long I stood there before the call came from the hospital.

The reality slapped me with the news.

Later that day, my father sat me down and explained it all. She’d been suffering from a disease brought on by years of stress. It had been eating away at her, quietly stealing pieces of her life while she smiled through the pain.

She never told him. She never told anyone.

“She hid it from me,” he said, his voice hollow. “All those arguments... it was all for you. She wanted the best for you, and I...” His voice broke, and he couldn’t finish the sentence.

Even as he spoke, I felt like there was more to the story, something he wasn’t saying. Maybe he didn’t know the full truth himself. Maybe he couldn’t bear to face it.

And me?

I couldn’t stop replaying that moment. The candles. The wish. The fall.

I had wished for money. For women.

I didn’t wish for her to be happy. I didn’t wish for her to be safe.

I was selfish. Why at that time I felt ok to do what I want, but now why I am regretting not sharing more time with her.

I could only remember that day—the previous Christmas—and the moment I didn’t give her a hug. It lingered in my mind, a cruel, bitter memory.

Now, I couldn’t hug her.

To be honest a part of me didn't know why I was crying. She was just a woman, just like my mom from my previous world. So why were the tears falling? Why did my chest feel so tight, like the air itself was pressing down on me?

But none of that mattered now. She was gone. But the memories are stuck inside my head, even the bad memories with her are a sweet melody to me.

I stood in front of that cake for what felt like hours, the words Happy Birthday burned into my mind like a scar but the candles were already off.

I wasn’t gullible—not by a long shot. Maybe I looked that way to my dad, considering I’m stuck in this kid-sized body, but my mind was already far from childish. I pieced it together quickly. The move, the house, the woman he wouldn’t stop mentioning by name—it time to time all clicked. Carol. The infamous Carol.

The thought made my stomach churn. Had my mom known? Maybe she had. Maybe she stayed in the illusion of love for my sake. Or maybe she believed there was still something left in their marriage worth saving.

Even until I grew up the pain in my heart never ceased when I remember my mom. What I had to do was burden the memories, and try to not remember.