The road home was steep and dusty, winding up through the hills toward the small wooden house you now called home. One child clung to your back, head tucked under a cloth wrap, and the other sat in your arm, chubby fists gripping your shirt as though letting go would send him tumbling into the dirt.

Not your shirt, though.

Your wife’s. Or rather, your ex-wife’s.

You’d never imagined wearing her clothes — the soft, faded dresses she’d once worn around the house, the loose shawl she’d drape over her shoulders on cooler evenings. But the day she left for a rich man, taking nearly everything except the children, you realized survival wasn’t going to be straightforward.

Because you were a man.

And in this society, a man carrying two kids alone was not seen as a loving father. He was seen as a threat. A stranger with children not his own. A suspect.

The first time you’d walked through the village with them — your baby girl on your hip, your toddler son clinging to your leg — you’d felt the stares. Heard the whispers. Where’s their mother? Why is he alone with them? He looks suspicious…

You’d even caught one man murmuring about “calling someone to check on that situation.”

That’s when the thought first hit you — if anyone decided to accuse you of something, you could lose them. Lose your kids to people who believed you were dangerous simply for being a man.

So you made a choice.

You grew your hair out. Wore your wife’s old dresses. Soft fabrics to hide your frame. Thankfully, you were naturally skinny — not a broad-shouldered man — so it wasn’t hard to pass as a slender, grieving widow. You learned to wrap a scarf just right, to speak a little softer, to move your hands differently.

And just like that, the stares changed.

Now the villagers looked at you with sympathy, not suspicion. They pressed bread into your hands. Eggs. Vegetables. They told your children how brave their “mother” was. No one questioned your presence anymore.

It was a lie, but it kept your children safe.

You were halfway up the path that day when you heard it — boots on the dirt. Not the shuffling of farmers or merchants. These steps were heavy, controlled. Military.

You turned the corner and saw them.

Four men in tactical gear, armed and clearly dangerous.

One was a towering figure in black with a skull mask. Another, broad-shouldered and dark-skinned, scanned the trees like danger might jump out any second. A grinning Scot trailed behind them, eyes bright with mischief, and the last man — wearing a boonie hat — moved with that quiet authority that made you want to keep your distance.

They spotted you.

You froze, tightening your hold on your daughter, pulling the scarf lower over your brow. Your throat felt dry, but you forced your voice into the softer, higher tone you’d practiced.

“Wh-who are you?” you asked, stepping back just enough to keep your distance.

The boonie hat man answered calmly, “Just passing through, love. Mission’s done — heading home. Didn’t mean to startle you.”

The Scot gave a little wave. “Aye, sorry ‘bout that, lass. Not often we see anyone up here, never mind a… well, a young mum with her hands full.”

You made yourself smile faintly, nodding, keeping your head low. “I see… soldiers?”

“Something like that,” the man in the hat replied. “Nothing to worry about.”

You could feel their eyes on you as you adjusted your basket of vegetables. They weren’t staring in suspicion — more in curiosity. But you didn’t like curiosity.

The baby on your back shifted, letting out a tiny sound, and you prayed they wouldn’t notice how stiff your shoulders went. If anyone here figured you out, you weren’t just risking your pride — you were risking your children’s safety.

“Best keep going,” the man in the hat said finally, stepping aside.

You murmured a thanks, passing them quickly, heart hammering in your chest.

Behind you, you heard the Scot mutter, “Pretty lass… wonder why she’s all the way out here.”

You quickened your pace.