Tomorrow, I turn eleven.
It's not a number that feels big or important.No new right, no new responsibility.Just another circle around the sun.
But tonight… tonight feels different.
The house was warm when I came in from helping Ma pick herbs. The sky outside was deepening into gold, and the scent of stew clung to the air.
Pa sat by the hearth, whittling a bit of wood like he always did after dinner. Ma hummed softly as she stirred the pot.
Something about the way they looked at each other made my chest feel full—like warmth had curled up behind my ribs.
I didn't expect anything.
We weren't poor, but we didn't waste coin on things that didn't matter. My last birthday, I got a warm pair of socks Ma had made and a sweet bun from Miss Felda.
It was perfect.
So when Ma pulled something wrapped in cloth from behind the cupboard, I tilted my head in confusion.
She handed it to me wordlessly, a quiet smile playing at her lips.
Inside were sheets of real paper.Twelve of them. Thick. Cream-colored. Smooth as river stones.The kind of paper scholars in the city use. The kind artists dream of.
My breath caught.
"This… this must have cost—"
"Shhh," Ma said, brushing a thumb across my cheek. "It's your birthday. Let yourself be surprised."
Pa grunted from his chair. "Traded two fine rabbit pelts to a merchant passing through. Don't you dare waste 'em."
My eyes burned a little, but I smiled.
"I won't. I promise."
I sat on my bed that night, the paper resting in my lap like something sacred.
I ran my fingers across the surface, imagining all the colors it would hold. The stories I could tell in silence—just strokes and light, shapes and shadows.
They didn't give me a sword.They didn't give me riches.They gave me something real. Something that saw me.
I could feel it—how much they cared. How they watched me grow, not into someone else, not into what they wished I was…
…but into who I already am.
And somehow, they knew what that meant, even when I was still figuring it out myself.
I tucked the paper away gently in a wooden box Pa carved for my brushes.
Then I stepped outside, just for a moment.
The stars were coming out.The wind smelled like rain and pine.
I closed my eyes and let the world press in around me. Not like a weight, but like a blanket.
Tomorrow I turn eleven.
And I don't want anything more than what I already have:
Two hands to paint with.A world to capture.And a home that understands me.