The books in the living room were stacked in careful, leaning rows.
His mother always said a good house needed two things— sunlight and books. The sunlight came through the wide windows in the afternoon, warm enough to cast slow-moving dust across the couch cushions.
That day, one lay open on her lap. Dolores, maybe six at the time, leaned against the couch arm beside her, pencil in hand like he might underline something too.
She had a habit of reading parts out loud, not the whole thing— just sentences she liked, or speeches she thought sounded beautiful.
Reading slowly, almost softly, letting the words stretch. "Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere."
Dolores nodded solemnly, then whispered, "So... if I don't share my snacks, that's injustice?"
His mother tried to keep a straight face. "Yes," she said. "A very small, but very real injustice."
He frowned, deep in thought. "Then I'll share half."
She didn't add commentary. Never told him what to think. She just looked over with a small smile, asking, "Pretty sentence, isn't it?"
Dolores liked the rhythm of it more than the meaning. He didn't really understand it, but he liked the way her voice softened on justice.
"In-just-tice? A-ny-where, is a... threat? To jus-tice... E-very-where," he repeated, jotting down the sentence on his 'journal'. A collection of random thoughts, scribbles, animal facts, and unfamiliar words.
His mother, turning her head to check the spelling, promptly pats his head in approval.
Another book sat on the coffee table— "Angela Davis' essays". She picked pieces from that too.
"I'm no longer accepting the things I cannot change... I'm changing the things I cannot accept."
They spoke of strength, courage, hope.
Her favourite one, however, stayed on the shelf, the spine weathered from her own reading—unopened for him.
'Maybe later', she always said. He didn't need all of it yet. That it was important he learned about good and strength before he learned about anything else.
She smiled faintly. "For some books, you need a little life first before they make sense."
When she wasn't reading, she was moving.
Martial arts practice in the backyard, strikes slicing through warm air with crisp whp, whp, whp sounds. Dolores watched from the porch step with admiration in his eyes. Her limbs cut through invisible opponents with precision that looked nothing like the polite, bookish woman she was inside the house.
But when she looked at him, all of that steel and sharpness seemed to melt.
"You'll grow up kind and strong, won't you?" she said once, half-teasing, brushing dust off his shoulder. "Kind, clever, and maybe just a little bit fierce."
He nodded like he always did, not wanting to disappoint his mother. He didn't yet know what fierce was supposed to feel like.
.
.
.
Dolores handed his test paper to his mother at the kitchen table. He stood beside her, heart thumping in that familiar hopeful way.
She glanced down as she filled the kettle, then paused with her kettle-spout mid-air when she saw the grade in the red pen: 100/100.
Her face lit up. "Oh my stars— you got a perfect score! My brilliant baby!" She dropped the kettle, abandoning it for a moment, and lifted him into a gentle hug, pressing her cheek to his.
Dolores laughed in delight, embarrassed, but warmth flooded him.
His father, seated at the table with his laptop open, looked up from behind his glasses. "That's good work," he said, voice even. Not overly excited— more matter-of-fact. But his tone held something: approval, satisfaction, expectation.
His mother released him, straightening herself. "You studied hard for this. I saw you last night, elbows propped on the desk."
Dolores looked away, cheeks warm.
His father nodded once. "Keep it up."
.
.
.
The family grocery trips were rare. Most weeks, either parent went alone. But that Saturday, the three of them ended up together, weaving through aisles under the supermarket's bright white lights.
His mother walked slightly ahead with the cart, scanning the shelves with a scholar's precision, as though comparing prices were a peer-reviewed exercise.
Dolores trailed beside her, hand-in-hand with his father. He checked items off a handwritten list.
"Whole wheat or white bread?" She asked.
"Whole wheat," his father said, then glanced at Dolores. "Unless you want white?"
Dolores shrugged. "Whole wheat."
His father tossed the loaf in the cart himself since it was closer to him. "Good. More fibre."
That was how he always was. Pragmatic, efficient. The kind of man who moved through the world like someone always solving a problem.
Back then, though, there was warmth under it. Not obvious, but it was there— steady, reliable, like the low hum of an engine that never stalled.
Dolores pointed to a box of cereal with cartoon cats.
"No," his father said immediately, without even looking up from the list.
"You didn't even check the price," Dolores muttered.
"Didn't need to."
His mother whispered, "He's allergic to fun."
They kept moving. Protein, vegetables, rice. At checkout, his mother slipped Dolores a pack of watermelon gum— his favourite— when his father wasn't looking; winking like they shared a secret. He didn't want to risk Dolores getting attached to junk food.
Small, ordinary things. Later, Dolores would remember those the most.
That night, after groceries were put away, his mother handed him a slim book with a bright cover.
"Start with this one," she said, "Martin Luther King Jr."
It was an introductory book for adolescents. By the time he was seven, his reading skills already surpassed his grade level.
Dolores turned it over in his hands. "And the others?"
"Later," she said, a flicker of mischief in her eyes. "When you're old enough. For now, just read. Think. That's enough."
She ruffled his hair before moving toward the kitchen, leaving him alone with pages that would sit heavy in his hands for years to come.