4

It was expected that no one would believe her, reasoned Amber, seated over a dinner of pancakes and tea with Isis and Rhea. She had already confided in Rhea about the mermaid she'd seen-and as expected, Rhea had laughed. It was expected, yes, but it still hurt.

That disbelief made her silently vow never to speak of it again-at least, not to anyone but her mother. Even if Miriam didn't believe her either, she would never mock or call her crazy like Rhea had.

Amber didn't realize she had been picking at her food instead of eating. Her eyes remained glued to the plate, unaware of the way Isis and Rhea watched her, noting her detachment.

"Mother, you might want to hear Amber's stupid story," Rhea said suddenly, her gaze fixed on Isis.

"What story?" Isis asked, turning to her daughter.

Amber blinked, surprised they were talking about her like she wasn't even there. Then Rhea turned to look at her directly, and Amber didn't like the sneer on her face.

"Why don't you tell her about your trance?" Rhea added mockingly. Amber stiffened. There was no easy way out. Rhea, as always, was determined to embarrass her.

Uncomfortable, Amber began to fidget, chewing on her fingers. She didn't want to say anything. What was the point? Isis wouldn't believe her. She had made a quiet decision to keep it to herself.

But their eyes were glued to her now. She sighed and mumbled to Rhea, "She won't believe me, just like-"

"Let me be the judge of that," Isis snapped, cutting her off. "Now speak before I get angry."

Amber sighed again, resigned to break her silence.

"Well..." she began hesitantly, "I saw a mermaid today-while washing dishes at the river."

No sooner had the words left her mouth than Isis and Rhea erupted in laughter-mocking, harsh, unrelenting. Amber lowered her head in humiliation, their laughter ringing in her ears like a thousand bells.

Though crushed, she tried to focus her thoughts on the next day. Thankfully, she would visit the orphanage-a place that brought her peace and joy. That hope, small as it was, gave her strength.

---

The next day, daylight spilled across the village. The orphanage sat along a busy street, surrounded by the sounds of vendors, clattering pots, laughing children, and wandering goats. A marquee out front read: To Care for the Homeless Children.

Amber handed three boys a coin each for helping her carry hampers of gifts. They thanked her and darted into the street, full of life.

The Matron-a large, warm woman-appeared from the doorway and greeted Amber with a bear hug. Then, arm in arm, they stepped outside.

Amber glanced at the marquee and smiled, proud that she could contribute something meaningful from her wages.

"Thank you so much, Amber," the Matron said with gratitude.

"It was little," Amber replied humbly.

"Nothing is little for us," the Matron said with a simple smile. "Stay blessed, Amber. Do give our regards to Miriam."

"She will hear. Thank you, Matron. Bye for now."

They waved, and Amber walked away with fulfillment in her steps. She had opened her heart to the poor, given joyfully, and she knew that if she had more, she would give more.

"Whoever is faithful with little, will be faithful with much," her mother would often say.

---

That evening, Amber and Miriam stepped onto the front porch with plates of rice, tomato sauce, and fish. A lantern glowed softly nearby.

"Hello, Daddy," Amber said, blowing a kiss at her father's sculpture. Miriam smiled wistfully. "Hello, honey," she echoed.

"Mother, it pleases me to see you this happy," Amber said. "You've loosened up."

"It's your presence," Miriam replied.

"The feeling is mutual."

They giggled and settled on opposite benches facing each other, digging into their meal.

"This is very nice," Miriam commented. "You make it so well. Because of you, we eat better now."

"I learned from the best," Amber replied. "And please, don't thank me. We only have each other."

Miriam reached over and ruffled Amber's hair affectionately. Amber beamed. "Let me get us water."

"Go on," Miriam said.

Amber disappeared into the house to do the needful.

As she poured water into two clay cups, her fingers slowed. The soft moonlight dancing on the surface reminded her of something - no, someone.

A face. Chiseled, serene. Amber-gold eyes that were quietly arresting. Arnold, the Prince of Upland.

She shook her head with a breathy laugh. That portrait of him at Isis's home again.

Every time she passed it at work, she found herself staring too long. The Prince of Upland - impossibly handsome, impossibly distant. A man of quiet command and impossible charm. People spoke of him with wonder - like a golden dream just out of reach.

Amber didn't know if she should be ashamed to count herself among the young women that wanted him.

And now, she knew Rhea wanted him as well. Her mother did too - seriously enough to speak it out loud. Isis hadn't said much, but there had been something in her eyes. A determined glint.

Well, Amber thought, Isis was rich. Rhea stood a chance.

Amber once again believed she didn't. But then again, dreaming was free - so why should she stop?

"You're a fool," she muttered to herself, carrying the cups back to the porch.

But a part of her - the part that still dared to dream - clung to the idea.

"No place like home," Amber said as she joined her mother againà. "If I had a choice, you know I'd stay here with you."

"I'd rather have you here, my star," Miriam whispered.

Sadness crept across Amber's face. Miriam noticed.

"Are you really happy there?" she asked gently. "This is the third time I'm asking."

Amber hadn't realized she was counting. She smiled, placed a reassuring hand on her mother's shoulder, and nodded.

Sometimes, she thought, the truth must be kept hidden to protect the people we love. Maybe that's part of growing up. Life always had something to teach.

***

That night, Amber jolted awake.

There was a sound-a soft creak from outside. She rose from bed, her chest tightening with a strange unease. From the window, she saw it: a faint glow moving across the yard. Her breath caught.

"Mum?" she whispered, stepping out barefoot onto the porch.

Miriam was walking toward the riverbank, a lantern in hand, shawl wrapped tightly around her shoulders, the outline of a canoe glinting faintly in the moonlight.

Amber's heart pounded. She ran after her.

"Mother!"

Miriam froze mid-step.

Amber's voice cracked. "Where are you going?"

"It's just the river, Amber," Miriam said softly, not turning. "I won't be long."

"You're going to search again." Amber's throat tightened. "Please... don't."

Miriam turned slowly, her eyes glistening. "I search once a year, my child. It's a promise I made myself. He went out to get me sculpting materials and never returned. I will do this yearly as long as I live."

Amber stepped closer, her voice breaking. "What if one day you go... and never return either? What if I lose you the same way we lost him?"

"Amber..."

"It's been twelve years," she whispered, tears spilling. "Dad is gone. But I'm still here. I'm sure he'd want you here-with me. Safe. Loving me. Not out there in the cold, chasing ghosts."

Miriam's grip on the lantern trembled.

"I've never tried to stop you before," Amber said, sobbing now. "But please. Let this be the last time. Break the cycle. Don't keep leaving me in hope of someone who isn't coming back."

Her mother's breath hitched.

"Let's build something together, Mum. From today. For tomorrow."

The silence was heavy... until Miriam's shoulders slumped and the lantern slipped from her hands into the grass. She opened her arms without a word.

Amber rushed into them.

They held each other under the moonlight, grief and love crashing like waves between them.

And without looking back at the river, Amber led her mother home.