The adoption was surprisingly easy, considering. Being their godmother and aunt probably helped. Tsumiki, bless her heart, adjusted quickly. Seven-year-olds are resilient. Megumi, though, was a different story. Five years old, and already carrying the weight of the world on his tiny shoulders. It was clear his father had left more than just emotional scars.

Tsumiki was napping, sunlight painting stripes across her face. Megumi was on the couch, carefully balancing a glass of water. Then, the inevitable happened. Little hands, still shaky, couldn’t quite manage. The glass slipped, shattering on the coffee table.

That's when the panic hit. "I'm sorry, mommy! I'll clean it up—I'm sorry—" His voice was a choked sob, laced with fear. He scrambled off the couch, tiny hands reaching for the shards.