The tiny one-room home reeked of smoke and sour milk. A dented pot sat over the fire, its contents charred black. Five-year-old Soren stood beside it, clutching a wooden spoon that was too big for his small hands.
He was hungry, his mother was tired, he thought... He thought he could be helpful. But by the time he could fetch some water from the well outside, the oats were burnt.
"I just wanted to make it ready before you came back…" he mumbled, staring at the floor.
His mother stood in the doorway, face twisted with fury. Her clothes were wet from the river, her knuckles raw from scrubbing laundry. She dropped the basket with a thud and stormed toward the pot.
"You ruined it," she hissed. "That was the last of the oats, Soren!"
"I'm sorry," he whimpered, stepping back.
But she was already reaching for the spoon in his hand. She yanked it away and struck him on the side of his hand. Not hard enough to break bone, but enough to sting, to frighten.
