Mama was always moving.
Like a butterfly flitting from bloom to bloom, or a hummingbird too quick to catch, she darted through life with relentless grace. Always in a rush. Always on the phone. Always dressed in something beautiful and on her way somewhere else. She lived in a world that sparkled far beyond the walls of our home.
Sometimes, I wondered if she noticed how much I had grown. If she saw the way my kindergarten sleeves no longer swallowed my hands, or how neatly I could tie my own shoelaces now. But I couldn't be mad. By the time she came home, the moon was already high in the sky, and I was fast asleep. And each morning, she vanished again before I could even rub the sleep from my eyes.
I missed her.
I missed the sound of her laughter, her fingers brushing through my hair, the warmth of her hugs. I wanted her to be there when I played piano, to hear the melodies I had practiced again and again just for her. I wanted her to come to school. Just once. To walk through the gate, see me in my class, and smile like she used to when I brought her flowers from the garden.
But she never came.
And when the ache in my chest grew too heavy, Papa's hand was there. His touch—so familiar now—slid over my skin like a lullaby. At first, I clung to him out of loneliness, reaching for comfort. But over time, I reached for something more.
His touch had changed me.
I didn't know how or why, only that I began to want it. I thought it made me special. Wanted. Loved. Even when his breath tickled my ear and he whispered things I didn't understand, like—
"You're getting naughtier, aren't you?"
—I giggled. I thought it was a game. A secret game, just for Papa and me.
And with each giggle, each whispered promise, I drifted further from Mama without even realizing it.
But that night changed everything.
It started with a scream. A high, piercing sound that cut through the silence like broken glass. I jumped. My hands flew to my ears as the door slammed open, and Mama stood there, her eyes blazing with fury.
"Disgusting animal!"
The words hit like a slap, but I didn't know who she meant. I only knew she was angry. Angrier than I'd ever seen her. Her gaze bounced between us—between me and Papa—like she didn't recognize either of us anymore.
Papa stood quickly, stepping in front of me. His voice was calm, but I could hear the tension behind it as he followed her out into the hallway.
I stayed behind. Alone in my room, clutching my knees to my chest, I listened.
"I know everything, Naoko! All along!" Papa's voice cracked, loud and raw. "The disgusting things you've done behind my back—for money, for fame!"
Something heavy crashed. A vase? A lamp? I imagined our living room—once warm and filled with laughter—now torn apart by shadows and shouting.
"You are even worse!" Mama's voice rose, stronger than his. "I thought it was just those kids from your agency—"
A pause. Her next words stabbed through the door.
"—but what did I just see? With your own child, too?!"
My chest tightened. I didn't breathe. Didn't move. My ears rang. My heart beat so loud, I thought it might burst.
So… what I did with Papa is wrong?
The pieces didn't fit. The words hung in the air, sharp and strange, too big for my little hands to hold. I didn't understand. Not fully. But something inside me cracked.
And then, Papa's voice—louder than thunder.
"My own child?! You dare to say that?! I know the truth, Naoko! That boy's not even mine!"
Silence.
Then the storm outside broke; thunder crashing, wind howling, as if the sky itself couldn't bear the truth any more than I could.
I stayed frozen. Staring at the floor. Hands over my ears. Tears rolling down my cheeks, though I hadn't even noticed them start to fall.
I didn't know what hurt more—Mama's rage, Papa's betrayal, or the words I didn't understand but somehow knew were about me.
I was six years old.
And that night, for the first time, I realized my life was fairytale.