Chapter 2

By the time I finally reached home, the sky had already begun to darken.

I stood outside the familiar front door, shifted my bag higher onto my shoulder, and rang the doorbell.

I barely had to wait.

The door opened, and there stood my mother.

She looked at me.

I looked at her.

For a few seconds, neither of us said anything.

Then she slowly raised an eyebrow.

"So, Madam, you finally found your way back home?"

I sighed.

"Come on, Mom. I told you I was going to come home late today, didn't I?"

"Of course."

She stepped aside to let me in.

"These days, you ask less and simply announce what you're going to do."

I gave her my most innocent smile.

"Sorry, Mom. Please forgive me this time, okay?"

She shook her head, trying very hard to look annoyed.

"Fine, fine. What can I even say? Who listens to me anyway?"

I walked inside and slipped my shoes off near the entrance.

My mother closed the door behind me.

Then, as if she had suddenly remembered something important, she looked at me.

"So, did you have your dinner?"

"No, Mom. I'm starving."

I said it with such confidence that even I almost believed myself.

The truth?

I had actually eaten something earlier.

And I wasn't even that hungry.

But admitting that now would probably start World War III.

My mother stared at me for a moment.

There was a suspicious little smile playing at the corners of her lips.

I knew that look.

She knew.

She always knew.

"What?" I asked, trying to sound casual.

"Nothing."

She turned around and walked toward the kitchen.

"Don't worry. I've tried a new recipe today."

My eyes immediately lit up.

"A new recipe?"

"Yes. Now go freshen up. I'll heat it up."

"Okay, Mom. I'll be back in a minute."

I hurried upstairs before she could ask me anything else.

My room was exactly as I had left it that morning.

I dropped my bag on the chair and pulled out the book I'd borrowed from the library. For a moment, I considered reading a few more pages.

Then my stomach growled.

Loudly.

I stared at it.

"Fine. Dinner first."

I placed the book safely on my desk and headed into the bathroom.

After washing my face and freshening up, I changed into my comfortable clothes. There was something about changing out of outside clothes that made the entire day feel like it was finally over.

I glanced at myself in the mirror before leaving.

"Much better."

I headed downstairs and followed the delicious smell drifting from the dining room.

My mother was already waiting.

I pulled out a chair and sat down.

"Finally," she said. "I thought you had disappeared again."

"I was gone for approximately five minutes."

"Five very long minutes."

I laughed.

She placed a plate in front of me.

I stared at it.

There were eggs sitting in a rich-looking tomato sauce, sprinkled with herbs and spices. The smell was warm, comforting, and surprisingly appetizing.

I looked at my mother.

"What is this?"

She smiled proudly.

"Louis, this is shakshuka."

"Shakshuka?"

"Yes."

"I've never tried it."

"I know. That's why I made it."

She sat down beside me and watched me expectantly.

"Now eat it."

I picked up my spoon.

"Okay, but if I don't like it—"

"You will."

I raised an eyebrow.

"That's a lot of confidence."

"It's my recipe."

"Fair enough."

I dug my spoon into the eggs and tomato stew, making sure to get a little bit of everything.

Then I took a bite.

I stopped.

My mother immediately leaned forward.

"Well?"

I swallowed.

"Wow."

Her face brightened.

"It is amazing, Mom."

"Really?"

"Yes! Yes, this is so good."

I took another bite before she could say anything.

She laughed softly.

"Thank goodness."

"Why?"

"I was worried it wouldn't turn out well. It's my first time making it."

I looked at the plate.

"Mom, this is awesome."

I took another spoonful.

"You should definitely make this again."

She smiled.

"Would you like some more?"

"Obviously."

She laughed and served me another portion.

I ate happily while she watched me.

There was something comforting about eating dinner at home.

Maybe it wasn't even the food.

Maybe it was the way my mother kept asking whether I wanted more even when I was already eating.

Or the way she looked genuinely pleased every time I complimented something she had cooked.

Or maybe it was simply the feeling of being home.

For all my complaints about her questioning me, worrying about me, and reminding me about everything I was supposed to do, I knew I was lucky.

She cared.

A lot.

Sometimes, probably too much.

But I wouldn't trade it.

I finished my dinner and leaned back in my chair.

"I'm full."

"Good."

My mother collected the plates.

I stood up to help her.

"I'll take these."

"No, go upstairs. You look tired."

"Mom—"

"Go."

I smiled.

"Okay, okay."

I walked toward the staircase.

"Good night, Mom."

"Good night, Louis."

I climbed the stairs and returned to my room.

The house had grown quieter now.

I changed once more, turned off the lights, and slipped beneath my blanket.

My eyes wandered toward the desk.

The book from the library was still lying there.

History is written by the winner.

The words came back to me.

I wondered briefly about the question I'd been thinking about earlier.

Maybe there really were two sides to every story.

Maybe heroes weren't always heroes.

Maybe villains weren't always villains.

I smiled faintly at the thought.

"Enough random thoughts for today."

I closed my eyes.

Within minutes, sleep took over.

And for the first time that day, my mind finally went quiet.

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