Solstice in Grandeur

Chapter 5: Year 5 - A Quiet Celebration

Hong Haein sat on the tiny wooden chair, her feet dangling just above the floor, dressed in a crisp white dress her nanny had carefully chosen for her. Her hair was neatly tied into two small pigtails, and her shoes were polished to a shine, reflecting the bright lights of the kindergarten hall. Around her, the room buzzed with excitement. Today was a special day — their kindergarten graduation, a ceremony that marked the end of their first step into the larger world of school.

Children fidgeted in their seats, eager and restless, their eyes darting towards the entrance, waiting to catch a glimpse of their parents arriving. Haein watched them with quiet eyes, her hands clasped in her lap, fingers tightly intertwined. Her classmates chattered about the gifts they would receive, the celebratory meals planned, the hugs, and the kisses they would soon share.

But Haein did not speak. She knew her parents would not come. They had not come to Family Day, and they would not come today. Her father had left early that morning, mentioning something about a business trip, his tone flat and his eyes distant. Her mother had been locked away in her room, not a word exchanged, not a single glance in Haein's direction. Haein did not even bother to ask; she had long stopped trying.

Still, her nanny, a kind-faced woman with gentle hands and a soft voice, had promised to be there. "I will come, little one," she had said, smoothing down Haein’s hair. "I will be there, don’t you worry." Haein had nodded, offering a small, grateful smile, the kind she reserved for those rare moments of kindness.

The ceremony began, and the teachers took to the stage, welcoming the families and children with warm words and wide smiles. One by one, they called the names of the children, who walked up, their faces shining with pride, to receive their little diplomas. Parents cheered, clapped, and snapped pictures, their voices filling the room with love and joy.

When Haein's name was called, she stood up, her heart fluttering slightly in her chest. She walked to the stage with measured steps, her gaze straight ahead, her hands clutching her dress. As she accepted her diploma from the teacher, she turned to face the audience. She scanned the sea of faces, searching, hoping… but not expecting.

And then she saw her — her nanny, standing at the back, a small figure in the crowd, waving with both hands, a broad smile on her face. Haein’s chest tightened. Her nanny clapped enthusiastically, her eyes shining with pride, as if Haein was the most special child in the room. Haein felt a warmth spread through her, a small spark of comfort amidst the coldness she was so used to. She offered a tiny wave back, her lips curling into the slightest of smiles.

The ceremony continued, but Haein barely listened. She kept glancing back at her nanny, who remained in her spot, her eyes never leaving Haein. When the ceremony ended, and the children rushed to their parents, Haein walked slowly, almost cautiously, to the back of the hall.

Her nanny greeted her with open arms. “Well done, my dear,” she whispered, pulling Haein into a gentle hug. “You were wonderful.”

Haein nodded, burying her face into the soft fabric of her nanny’s coat. She felt a strange mixture of emotions — happiness that someone had come for her, and sadness that it wasn’t the someone she had wished for.

Her nanny pulled back and looked at her, her eyes filled with understanding. “I know, little one,” she said softly, as if reading Haein’s thoughts. “But I am here, and I am so proud of you.”

Haein smiled up at her, a small, tentative smile, the kind that hid as much as it revealed. She held onto her nanny's hand tightly as they walked out of the school hall, passing by the clusters of families still celebrating, their laughter echoing around them.

They walked in silence for a while, the nanny’s hand warm and comforting in Haein’s small grip. “Shall we get ice cream?” her nanny suggested, trying to lighten the mood.

Haein nodded. “Strawberry, please,” she whispered. It was her favourite, the one she rarely got because her mother didn’t like the smell.

As they reached the ice cream shop, the nanny chatted cheerfully, trying to fill the quiet between them. Haein listened, nodding occasionally, her eyes focused on the pink swirl of ice cream in her cone. She felt a strange emptiness inside, a hollow feeling that even the sweetness of the ice cream could not fill.

They sat on a bench outside the shop, watching as people passed by. The nanny tried to engage Haein in conversation, talking about the flowers in the garden, the birds in the trees, anything to make her smile. Haein nodded along, licking her ice cream slowly, lost in her own thoughts.

She wondered why her parents had not come. She wondered if they even knew today was special, if they knew that today she had graduated from being a little girl to… something more. She wondered if they would have been proud, or if they would have even cared.

But she pushed those thoughts away. She had learned, even at this young age, that some questions had no answers, and some hopes were better left unspoken.

When the ice cream was gone, and the sun began to dip lower in the sky, her nanny took her hand again. “Come, let’s go home,” she said softly.

Haein nodded, her small shoulders straight, her chin held high. She walked beside her nanny, her steps firm, her face set. She knew that her life would always have empty seats at important events, that there would always be spaces that should have been filled by the ones she loved most. But she also knew that she would have to find her own way to fill them.

As they approached the grand gates of her house, Haein glanced up at the large building, its windows dark and unwelcoming. She tightened her grip on her nanny’s hand and took a deep breath. She would be strong; she would learn to stand tall, even when no one else stood beside her.

Her nanny squeezed her hand gently, as if sensing her thoughts. “I’m here, little one,” she whispered. “I’m here.”

And for a moment, that was enough.