Tangled Hearts.

~Chapter 1~

~Raelyn~
 
~March 20th, 2004~
 
My earliest memory lived in my mind like an old film reel—grainy around the edges but vivid in the center. I was five years old, dressed in my favorite sparkly purple dress, the one with tiny stars embroidered along the hem. My matching shoes clicked against the floor as I walked, catching the light just right, the glitter winking back at me like they knew a secret. Even then, my silver eyes felt too old for my face.

~

Upstairs in my room, I sat cross-legged on the carpet, deep in the middle of a tea party with my dolls, Becky and Charlotte. It had become my daily routine—one I guarded like a sacred ritual. The room was quiet but alive with imagination. The delicate clink of tiny porcelain cups, the rustle of tulle as I shifted in my seat, and the whispered conversations between my dolls filled the space with a kind of gentle magic.

Then came the voice—soft and warm.

"Raelyn, dinner's ready, darling!" Mom called from downstairs, her words floating up like a lullaby that broke the spell.

I gently set Becky and Charlotte back in their chairs, smoothing Charlotte's dress, and promised them I'd be back soon. I didn't like to leave them waiting. Even at that age, I hated saying goodbye.

The scent of crumpets met me before I even reached the dining room, comforting and familiar. There was a glass of milk at my place, already sweating with condensation. I climbed into my chair, my legs swinging freely beneath me.

Mom moved slowly as she set down a dish. She was heavily pregnant at the time—round, glowing, and beautiful in the way only mothers can be. Isa was still just a hope tucked beneath her skin. Her smile was tired, and behind it, something else lingered... something quieter. Maybe worry. Maybe sadness.

Dad sat at the head of the table, where he always did, but he looked... different that night. Smaller, somehow. His eyes were far away, like he was watching something no one else could see. The usual comfort of our family dinners—the soft laughter, the silly stories—had vanished. In its place was a silence so heavy it felt like the walls were holding their breath.

Mom cleared her throat softly. "How was your day, Raelyn?"

I took a bite of my crumpet, still warm and buttery. "It was good," I said. "I played with Becky and Charlotte all day."

Dad's eyes flickered back into focus for a second. "Was it Becky's turn to win the tea party, or Charlotte's?" His voice was quiet, like he was afraid it might crack if he spoke too loud.

"Charlotte," I said with a grin. "She always brings the best biscuits."

He smiled, but it was fleeting and faint. It never reached his eyes.

Mom and Dad exchanged a glance across the table—hers laced with concern, his with something that, looking back, felt like resignation. At the time, I didn't have the words for it. I just knew something in the air had shifted.

I finished eating quickly, my appetite fading under the weight of the silence. "May I be excused?" I asked, my voice small.

"Of course, sweetie," Mom said, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. Her voice was gentle, but there was something fragile beneath it, like thin glass waiting to crack.

I slid off my chair and padded back upstairs, the comfort of my dolls calling to me like an anchor. I nestled between them on the floor, wrapping myself back up in their make-believe world where nothing ever changed, and no one ever looked sad for reasons they didn't explain.

At the time, I thought it was just another dinner. Just another quiet night.

But now... now I know better.