The kitchen smelled like cinnamon, vanilla, and everything safe.
Maryna was nine, legs swinging from the counter, a streak of flour across her nose. Her mother hummed as she worked, her hands deep in dough, hips swaying with the music playing softly from a dusty old radio.
Her father leaned against the fridge, flipping through a newspaper he never really read, just watching them with the kind of smile that made her feel like the center of the world.
They were the whole world.
"Papi," Maryna asked, dusting her apron, "what's the bravest thing you've ever done?"
Her father looked up over his glasses. "Marrying your mama."
Her mom snorted, threw a little flour at him. He caught it and flicked it back with exaggerated grace. Maryna giggled so hard she nearly toppled off the counter.
"No," she said, breathless. "Really."
He walked over, kneeling in front of her, his hands rough from work but gentle as they cupped her face.
"The bravest thing I ever did," he said softly, "was promise to keep you safe in a world that won't always deserve you."
Maryna blinked.
He kissed her forehead and whispered, "You're my Mariposa. I'll always protect your wings."
The moment felt like sunlight bottled in her chest.
That night, the rain came softly, tapping the windows like it had a lullaby to share.
They lit candles anyway, her father insisting it made things magical.
They danced in the living room. Her mother barefoot, her father twirling them both, Maryna laughing so hard her cheeks hurt.
When the lights flickered, her father just held her tighter.
"I'll keep you safe," he said again. "No matter what."
She didn't know then that promises could be broken by silence.
That he'd vanish without warning.
That no one would explain.
That her mother would fade too, piece by piece, like a candle in the wind.
And when the door slammed shut for the last time, it wasn't her father's voice calling after her.
It was someone else's.
Someone colder.
Someone who would call her a burden. Then a temptation. Then a possession.
She'd try to remember this night for years to come.
The smell of cinnamon.
The warmth of arms that only held, never hurt.
The voice that called her Mariposa and meant beloved—
not owned.
To be continued…