The smell of pancakes and melted butter filled the small kitchen, clinging to the sun-warmed air. Maryna giggled as she stood on her tiptoes, struggling to reach the counter, her small hands clumsy as she tried to flip the pancake just like her father had shown her.
"Almost, Mariposa," her father chuckled, crouching down beside her. His voice was deep and warm, full of patience. He was a large man, broad-shouldered and strong from long days working with his hands, but with her, he was always gentle. He lifted her wrist, correcting her grip with a careful touch. "Like this. Nice and easy."
Maryna grinned up at him, her dark curls springing wild around her face. Her mother's laughter rang out from across the kitchen, where she leaned against the counter, a dishtowel slung over her shoulder, her smile bright enough to rival the morning sun.
"You two are a mess," her mother teased, brushing flour from her cheek. She was beautiful in a way that was effortless—warm brown skin, laughing eyes, a light that seemed to live inside her. "I turn my back for one second, and the whole kitchen turns into a battlefield."
"Kitchen wars are the best kind of wars," her father said with mock seriousness, ruffling Maryna's hair. She squealed in delight, batting his hand away, her cheeks aching from smiling so much.
These were the mornings Maryna loved most—when time slowed down, when the outside world didn't matter. Just her, her mom, and her dad. Safe. Whole. A little house that smelled like fresh bread and warm coffee and love.
Later that afternoon, she and her father sprawled out in the backyard, the grass scratchy against her bare legs. She traced lazy circles on his arm as he told her stories—tall tales about heroes and monsters, about faraway lands where anything was possible if you were brave enough.
"Someday, you're going to change the world, Mariposa," he said, tapping a finger against her forehead. "Because you're smart. And you're good. And no one can take that away from you."
Maryna didn't know it then, but he was giving her something she would cling to for the rest of her life—the belief that she was worth something. That no matter what happened, no matter who tried to tear her down, she came from love.
That night, as the sun dipped low behind the trees, her parents slow danced in the living room, an old record crackling in the background. Maryna peeked around the corner, watching her father twirl her mother, both of them laughing softly, oblivious to anything else. Her mother's head rested on his chest, his arms wrapped tight around her like she was the most precious thing in the world.
Maryna curled up on the couch, lulled by the music, by the feeling that nothing bad could ever touch them.
She didn't know how much she would come to treasure that memory.
Or how quickly it would all slip away.