The morning sun rose gently over Greenhill, spilling light across the fields and rooftops. Birds sang from the trees, and the smell of fresh bread drifted from Clara's kitchen. Inside the small wooden house, a little boy with bright eyes and a big smile was already awake. Daniel sat on a low stool, tying his worn sandals. He was six now, small for his age, but strong and full of energy.
He ran to the kitchen and found Clara stirring porridge over the fire. Her hair was tied back, her face serious as always. "Good morning, Mama," Daniel said cheerfully. "Can I help you today?"
Clara didn't look up at first. "You can sweep the floor after breakfast," she said shortly. "And fetch water from the well."
"Yes, Mama," Daniel replied, smiling. He never complained.
Around the table sat Clara's three children, Ruth, Peter, and Sarah. They were noisy and full of laughter, fighting over spoons and teasing one another. Ruth, the eldest, was ten and already developing her mother's sharpness. Peter, eight, was loud and often lazy. Sarah, the youngest, was sweet but spoiled, often crying until she got her way.
When Clara served breakfast, Daniel waited patiently until everyone had their bowls. He always got his last. Sometimes his portion was smaller, but he didn't notice much. He was just happy to be included. "Thank you, Mama," he said, spooning his porridge slowly so it would last longer.
Clara's eyes flicked toward him briefly. "Eat quickly," she said. "We have work to do."
After breakfast, Daniel took the broom and swept the floor, humming softly as he worked. He enjoyed cleaning because it made Clara smile, at least sometimes. When she was pleased, her voice softened, and for Daniel, that small change was worth every bit of effort.
Later, he carried two heavy buckets to the well, one in each hand. The sun was hot, and the path was long, but he didn't stop. His cousins often found excuses to avoid chores, pretending to be tired or sick. But Daniel never did. He wanted to prove he was good, useful, worthy of the love he felt he had to earn.
When he returned, sweaty and tired, Clara nodded. "Put them by the door," she said.
That little nod filled Daniel's heart with pride.
In the afternoons, Daniel liked to sit by the window and draw shapes in the dust or read old books borrowed from the small school near the church. He had learned to read faster than most children his age, thanks to his teacher, Miss Helen. She was kind and patient, and she saw something special in Daniel right away.
"Daniel," she often said, smiling, "you have a sharp mind. Never stop learning."
Her praise made Daniel's heart soar. He loved school, the smell of chalk, the sound of pages turning, the rhythm of learning. At school, he felt equal to everyone else. Nobody cared that his clothes were worn or that his lunch was sometimes only a piece of bread. They cared about how he read aloud, how he solved sums on the board, and how he always listened carefully.
One afternoon, Miss Helen gave the class an assignment to write a short story about their families. Daniel worked hard, staying up late to finish his piece. He wrote about his "mother," Clara, and how she taught him to work hard and be respectful. He didn't mention the small differences he sometimes noticed. He didn't yet understand them.
When he read his story aloud, Miss Helen clapped. "That was beautiful, Daniel," she said. "You write with such heart."
He beamed, feeling proud and a little shy.
That evening, when he told Clara about it, she didn't respond right away. She was peeling potatoes, her knife moving quickly. "It's good you did well," she said flatly. "But don't get proud. Pride makes a child foolish."
Daniel nodded, lowering his eyes. "Yes, Mama."
Inside, though, he didn't feel proud, just happy. He wanted her to share that happiness, but he didn't understand why she didn't smile the way other mothers did when their children succeeded.
The seasons changed. Daniel grew taller, his hair a bit darker, his mind even sharper. He loved helping Clara in the garden, planting vegetables and pulling weeds. When harvest time came, he worked beside her from morning to evening, his small hands blistered but never idle.
Sometimes the neighbors would stop by and say, "Clara, you're lucky to have such a hardworking boy."
Clara would force a smile. "He helps a little," she'd say. But deep down, those words stirred something uncomfortable in her chest. Why did everyone always praise Daniel and not her own children?
One afternoon, Peter came running into the house, crying. "Mama! Daniel hit me!"
Daniel, who had been outside chopping wood, looked shocked. "No, Mama! I didn't!" he said quickly. "He took my pencil and broke it. I only tried to take it back."
Clara's eyes narrowed. "Enough! You're older, you should know better. Don't raise your hand to your brother."
"But …"
"Not another word," she snapped.
Daniel fell silent, biting his lip. He felt a lump in his throat. It wasn't fair, but he didn't argue. Later that evening, he apologized to Peter anyway, even though he wasn't wrong. He didn't like to see anyone angry, least of all Clara.
When he went to bed that night, he whispered a little prayer. "Please, God, help me be a good son. I want Mama to love me."
He didn't know that she already loved him in a strange, quiet way, mixed with guilt and jealousy that she could never name.
At school, Daniel continued to shine. Miss Helen often sent him to help younger students learn to read. "You have a gift," she told him. "One day, you'll do great things."
Daniel didn't quite understand what she meant. He only knew that learning made him feel alive. Numbers and words were simple, fair, and kind, unlike people, who were sometimes confusing.
One day, the headmaster visited the class and gave a small quiz. When the papers were marked, Daniel had the highest score in the entire school. The headmaster patted him on the back and said, "Well done, young man. You make Greenhill proud."
Miss Helen smiled proudly, too. She sent a note home with him for Clara to read. Daniel ran all the way home, holding the paper tightly, his heart racing.
"Mama! Look!" he said, bursting through the door. "The headmaster said I got the best marks! Miss Helen wrote you a note!"
Clara took the paper and read it silently. Her children gathered around, curious. Ruth frowned. "He always gets things from school," she muttered. "Teacher's favorite."
Peter rolled his eyes. "Yeah. He thinks he's better than us."
Daniel's excitement faded. He looked from one face to another, not sure what to say. "I, I just studied hard," he stammered.
Clara folded the paper slowly. "It's good that you do well," she said, her tone flat. "But remember, Daniel, books don't make a man. Hard work does. Don't think too highly of yourself."
He nodded, forcing a small smile. "Yes, Mama."
When he went to his small corner of the room that night, he unfolded the paper again. Miss Helen's words were simple: "Daniel is a bright and promising student. You must be proud."
He traced the letters with his finger, whispering, "I hope she is."
Life went on quietly in Greenhill. Daniel kept working, studying, and trying to please everyone. He was cheerful, polite, and always ready to help. He didn't know that his kindness sometimes made his cousins jealous, and his aunt resentful.
One evening, Clara sat outside alone, watching the children play. The sun was low, painting the sky orange and pink. Daniel was helping little Sarah braid flowers into her hair, laughing softly. Ruth sat nearby, scowling.
"You like him better than us," Ruth muttered.
Sarah shook her head. "No, I just like when he helps me."
Clara heard them and said nothing. But her eyes lingered on Daniel. He looked so much like his mother, the same warm eyes, the same gentle patience. The memory hit her suddenly: the day she had promised Thomas to care for him. She had meant it then. She had truly tried. But as the years passed, seeing Daniel succeed while her own children stumbled felt like a quiet punishment.
Why does everyone love him so much? she thought bitterly. He's not even mine.
She looked away quickly, scolding herself for the thought. He was just a child. A good child. But the feeling stayed, heavy and sour.
When Daniel came running up to her with a flower in his hand, smiling brightly, she forced a smile back. "For you, Mama," he said. "It's pretty, like you."
Her throat tightened. "Thank you," she said softly. She took the flower but didn't meet his eyes.
He didn't notice. He was happy, because for a moment, she had smiled.
As the evening light faded, Clara sat with the flower in her hand, feeling its soft petals. Something inside her ached. She didn't understand why his goodness hurt her so much, only that it did.
And for the first time, a quiet, dangerous feeling began to grow in her heart, one that would later turn her love into bitterness, and her care into cruelty.