As the festival wound down, the sun dipped behind the hills, and torches flickered to life, casting golden light across the castle walls. The smell of firewood and roasting meat mingled with the sweet scent of the nearby stalls. People gathered around outdoor tables, laughing and sharing stories.
Sebastian led me to a quiet spot near one of the fires. The warmth hit my face, chasing away the last chill from the day. I sank onto the wooden bench beside him, feeling the heat seep through my clothes. He had already placed plates of roasted vegetables, sausages, and bread before us, the simple food tasting extraordinary in the glow of the fire.
We ate slowly, watching the flickering flames dance in rhythm with the laughter and music around us. I felt a peace I hadn't known in years. My shoulders, usually tight with tension, relaxed. I let my hair fall freely, and the wind played with the strands. Sebastian poured me a cup of warm cider, and I held it in my hands, letting the warmth spread through me.
I glanced at him, and for the first time in a long while, I let myself truly feel… safe, seen, and alive. "I never imagined a day like this," I whispered.
He smiled softly, brushing a strand of hair from my face. "You deserve it," he said. "You've carried so much, survived so much. Let tonight be for you."
The fire crackled, casting shadows over our faces, and I noticed how everything—the heat, the smell of the food, the laughter of strangers, the twilight sky—melded together, reminding me that life could hold joy again. I let myself lean closer, resting my head lightly on his shoulder.
Somewhere in the distance, the music continued, children's laughter drifting like a gentle echo. I closed my eyes, breathing in the smoky, sweet air, thinking of my girls, imagining their delight here, and feeling a flicker of hope that one day, this peace could be theirs too.
Sebastian tightened his arm around me, and I realized something: I was still healing, still carrying scars, but for the first time in years, I felt like I could breathe without fear.
Tonight, I decided, I would let myself enjoy it fully. The past could wait, the pain could wait. Here, in the firelight, I was alive—and for the first time, I was allowed to be happy.
The day finally came when I could have my girls for a short vacation. My heart pounded as I waited outside, imagining what they would look like, what their voices would sound like after months apart. When the car pulled up, I almost couldn't breathe. My girls jumped out, eyes wide, smiles bright—but I noticed the paleness in their cheeks, the slight slump in their shoulders. Hunger and neglect had left traces, and it broke me inside.
"Mom!" they called, running toward me. I scooped them up, holding them tight, and for a moment, the world shrank to just us. Sebastian lingered a few steps behind, smiling, letting me have this first embrace.
Over the next week, I pushed myself harder than I thought possible. We played tag, built sandcastles, and ran barefoot through the grass, even when my legs screamed in protest. I hid my pain as best I could, but Sebastian noticed. He joined in the games, teaching them how to catch, tossing them gently into the air, making them laugh until they were breathless. He cooked for us, barbecued their favorite foods, and even reminded them to wash their hands, put their shoes away—small routines that made me realize how much my ex had neglected these simple cares.
In the evenings, when I was utterly exhausted, Sebastian would gently say, "Go rest. Let them play for a while." And I did. I watched from the couch as they giggled, threw pillows at each other, and made forts with blankets. I felt a warmth spread inside me that I hadn't felt in years—a quiet joy, a glimmer of what family could truly be.
And yet, under it all, a small, simmering anger burned. Seeing them thin, pale, and tired after months of being with their father made me rage quietly inside. How could he do this to them? They are my children too—my precious girls—and he had failed them in ways I never imagined. But I didn't scream. I didn't cry. I held the anger inside and let it fuel something stronger: my determination.
I promised myself that I would fight for them, that I would give them the childhood they deserved, even if the world said I couldn't. And as I tucked them into bed at night, brushing hair from their foreheads and whispering little reassurances, I felt a spark of hope grow.
They were safe here, with me, for now. And that was just the beginning.
We decided to buy the house. As I stepped inside, I could feel the difference immediately. The downstairs was solid—built with rock and cement—while the upper part was warm wood, like it could breathe and protect at the same time.
Sebastian looked at me and said softly, "This will be yours. You will never be cold in winter again."
The words hit me harder than I expected. Memories I had tried to bury came rushing back—the freezing nights when I had no wood, when my ex went to his grandmother for warmth and food, and I couldn't just go with him. I was trapped, alone, watching my children suffer too. The old lady had been kind to me, but she couldn't do more. I had always felt powerless.
Now, standing in this house, I could feel it: safety. Warmth. Control over my life. My heart softened in a way it hadn't in years. For the first time, I could imagine winters without fear, without trembling, without hunger. For the first time, I could imagine a home—truly a home—where my children and I could feel secure.
I ran my hands along the cool stone walls downstairs, imagining the warmth we would build inside, the laughter that would echo here, the quiet evenings where we wouldn't have to worry about survival. And for the first time in a long time, I smiled without a shadow of fear.
This was more than a house. It was freedom.
I remembered walking through the woods, searching for sticks, gathering whatever I could carry home. My small hands ached as I sawed them into pieces small enough to fit the fragile, barely working fireplace. The winters back then had been cruel—cold biting through walls that barely held heat, while he would go to his grandma for warmth and food. I couldn't just follow, couldn't ask for help. The old lady liked me, she truly did, but she couldn't do more. And I was left alone, shivering, scraping together what little warmth I could.
Now, standing in this new house, I could barely believe it. The downstairs walls of rock and cement promised solidity, the upper wood panels felt cozy, warm, safe. Sebastian had said I would never be cold again in winter, and for the first time, I believed it. I could feel it in my chest—relief, gratitude, a seed of hope I hadn't dared nurture in years.
This wasn't just a house. This was the end of wandering, of freezing, of scraping to survive. This was mine.
As we got the house, Sebastian immediately started checking everything. Every corner, every pipe, every small crack or flaw—he had contacts for all of it. Builders, carpenters, electricians, painters… he knew everyone. It was as if nothing could be overlooked. I watched him coordinate, make calls, schedule visits, and somehow everything fell into place.
I realized I didn't need to worry about any of it. The house was becoming more than just walls and a roof—it was a foundation for the life I was building. And while he handled the fixes and the perfection, I could focus on myself, on the orchard, on the books, on planning for the future with my girls.
For the first time in my life, I felt life unfolding in front of me, carefully, but fully. Every small improvement, every repaired corner, made me believe I could build more—my dreams, my independence, my strength. The house wasn't just a home. It was the beginning of everything I had fought to survive for.
As I watched Sebastian handle the house now, a wave of relief and pride washed over me. For years, I had dreamed of a home, and I had built one—or tried to—under the worst conditions imaginable. With my ex, it had been a nightmare. I worked tirelessly, laying tiles on the floor, painting walls, cementing the basement, even starting insulation on the roof. I bought every small thing—oven, fridge, closets—with the little money I could earn. He… he just played around, as if the work, the life, the responsibility wasn't real.
Now, seeing how smoothly everything was taken care of, I realized I had done it before without support, without respect, and under constant fear. And I had survived. I had built a home while living in misery, and now I could finally breathe in a space that was cared for, that was safe. It wasn't just a house. It was proof—proof that I could do hard things, survive, and grow stronger even when others tried to break me.