By the time Daniel turned nine, small differences began to take shape in his daily life. They were quiet at first, so quiet that he did not notice them right away. But little by little, they became part of his world, as ordinary as the sun rising each morning over the hills of Greenhill.
At breakfast, he would sometimes look at the bowls on the table and see that his was not as full as the others. Ruth's bowl overflowed with porridge, Peter's was nearly full, and even little Sarah's had plenty. Daniel's bowl, though, was always smaller. He never complained. When he looked up, Clara would be watching, her face unreadable.
"Eat quickly, Daniel," she would say. "You are slow."
"Yes, Mama," he would reply softly. He ate carefully, not wanting to spill a drop. He told himself it was enough.
The same thing happened with clothes. Ruth and Peter often received new shoes or shirts at the market. Daniel, however, wore clothes that had once belonged to Peter. They were always a little too big or a little too short, sometimes patched at the knees. He washed them neatly and folded them each night, pretending he did not notice the difference.
But he did notice.
One Sunday morning, when Clara dressed the children for church, she handed Daniel a faded blue shirt. The collar was frayed, and the sleeves had been mended so many times that the stitches looked like tiny scars.
"Mama," he said gently, "this shirt is too small."
Clara frowned. "It fits well enough. Be grateful you have clothes at all."
"Yes, Mama."
He said it quietly, but his heart sank.
At church, people smiled and greeted them warmly. The pastor patted Daniel's head and said, "You are growing into a fine young man, Daniel. Your mother must be proud."
Clara smiled politely, her arm resting on Ruth's shoulder. "He is doing all right," she said.
Daniel looked up at her and smiled too, hoping she would look at him with pride. But her eyes drifted past him to someone else. That tiny moment stayed with him long after the service ended.
At school, Daniel's world was brighter. He found comfort in the classroom, where everything felt fair. Miss Helen, his teacher, was still his greatest encourager. She noticed how carefully he did his work, how he never gave up even when things were hard.
When the school announced a small essay competition, Daniel poured his heart into it. The topic was "My Dream for the Future." While other children wrote about wanting to be farmers, shopkeepers, or tailors, Daniel wrote about wanting to open a big school one day where poor children could learn for free.
He spent nights sitting near the dim lamp, writing and rewriting each sentence until he was satisfied. Clara noticed the light from his corner and scolded him.
"You will ruin your eyes," she said sharply. "You think writing stories will put food on the table? Go to sleep."
"I will stop soon, Mama," Daniel said softly. "I just want to finish this one."
She shook her head. "You always think too much."
When the results were announced two weeks later, Daniel won first place. His essay was praised by the headmaster himself, who called it "thoughtful and inspiring." Miss Helen beamed with pride and asked Daniel to read it aloud at the school assembly.
As he read, his voice trembled slightly, but the hall was silent. The other students listened carefully, some smiling, some looking in awe. When he finished, the headmaster led the applause.
After the ceremony, he gave Daniel a small book as a prize and said, "You have a gift, son. Use it well."
Daniel's chest filled with warmth. He could not wait to show Clara. He ran all the way home, clutching the book to his chest.
"Mama! Look what I won!" he said breathlessly as he entered the house. "The headmaster gave it to me. He said I did very well."
Clara was shelling beans at the table. She looked up briefly, then went back to her work. "That is nice," she said flatly.
Daniel waited for a smile, a hug, or even a kind word, but none came. "The book is about stories from around the world," he said, trying to share his excitement. "Maybe I can read them to Sarah later."
Clara's voice grew sharper. "Daniel, stop talking so much. You are making my head ache. Go help Peter fetch firewood."
He blinked in confusion. "Yes, Mama."
He turned to leave, the book still in his hands. He wanted to cry, but he bit his lip instead. She must be tired, he told himself. That is why she sounds angry.
Outside, Ruth was waiting. She smirked when she saw him. "What did you win now, teacher's pet?" she asked.
"It was just a school essay," Daniel said quietly.
Ruth snatched the book from his hands. "Oh, look at this. A book! As if you are some big scholar." She flipped through the pages carelessly. "Maybe you think you are better than us."
"No, I don't," Daniel said quickly, reaching for it. "Please give it back."
Peter laughed. "Let him read. Maybe he will become a professor and leave us behind."
Ruth shoved the book back at him. "You act too good for this house, Daniel. You always want people to like you."
Daniel stared at the ground. "I just like to study."
"Of course you do," Ruth said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "Because school is the only place where people care about you."
Her words stung. He did not reply. He walked away slowly, holding the book close to his chest again. That night, he hid it under his pillow like a treasure.
Over the next few months, things only grew harder. Clara's attitude toward Daniel became colder. Whenever he did something good, she found a way to make it seem small.
When he cleaned the yard, she said, "You missed a spot."
When he fetched water, she said, "You spilled too much."
When he brought home good grades, she said, "Grades will not feed you."
Daniel tried harder, hoping that one day she would smile and say she was proud. But her smile never came.
In public, though, she pretended differently. When the pastor or neighbors praised Daniel, she would nod and say, "Yes, he studies well. I have taught him to be disciplined."
People would say, "You are lucky, Clara. That boy will go far one day."
She would smile politely, but her heart would tighten. Lucky. The word echoed in her mind long after they were gone. She did not feel lucky. She felt overshadowed. Her own children were ordinary, while Daniel shined without even trying.
That night, after the neighbors left, she turned to Daniel. "You must not let people praise you too much. It makes you proud."
"I am not proud, Mama," Daniel said softly. "I just want to make you happy."
Her lips pressed into a thin line. "Then stop showing off. You make your cousins look bad."
Daniel's chest hurt. He wanted to say he did not mean to show off, that he only worked hard because he wanted her love. But the words stuck in his throat. He lowered his head and whispered, "I am sorry, Mama."
The small things began to hurt more. When Clara baked bread, she gave the softest pieces to her children and the crusts to Daniel. When she cooked meat, she handed him the smallest portion. He noticed now, though he pretended not to.
Once, at dinner, Sarah refused to eat her stew. "I do not like it," she said, pushing the bowl away.
Clara sighed. "Daniel, give yours to your sister."
Daniel hesitated. He was hungry, but he nodded. "Here, Sarah," he said quietly, sliding his bowl across the table.
Sarah smiled and took it.
"Good boy," Clara said. "You see, sharing is important."
Daniel forced a smile, but his stomach growled as he watched his sister eat. That night, when everyone else slept, he went outside and sat under the stars. The air was cool, and the crickets sang softly. He looked up at the sky and whispered, "Mama, I am trying to be good. Why does it still hurt?"
He did not know who he was speaking to. To Clara, or maybe to the mother he had never met.
As the years passed, Daniel's name became well known in school. He won another award, this time for mathematics. The headmaster called him "a shining light for Greenhill's future." The whole school clapped for him, and Miss Helen could not stop smiling.
When Daniel walked home with the certificate in his hand, he thought maybe this time things would be different. Maybe Clara would be happy. Maybe she would hug him like the mothers he saw at school did with their children.
He walked into the house, smiling brightly. "Mama, I won again!" he said. "The headmaster said I did very well!"
Clara looked up from kneading dough. "Again?" she said, frowning slightly. "You are always bringing papers and stories."
Daniel blinked, confused. "It is not just a paper, Mama. They said I am one of the best students in the district."
She sighed. "That is good, Daniel. But remember, books do not cook food. Go wash your hands and help me."
He nodded slowly. "Yes, Mama."
Later that evening, as they sat by the fire, Ruth and Peter snickered.
"Maybe he will get rich one day," Peter said mockingly. "Then he can buy us all new clothes."
Ruth laughed. "If he remembers us."
Daniel smiled weakly. "Of course I will."
Clara said nothing. She stared into the fire, lost in thought.
In her mind, she saw Daniel's real mother again. Mary, lying pale and still on her bed, the baby crying beside her. She had promised Thomas she would care for him like her own. She had meant it then. But now, the sight of his success made her feel small and unimportant. Her own children struggled with lessons, while Daniel excelled easily. The more others praised him, the more she felt a sharp, silent jealousy grow inside her.
That night, she could not sleep. She turned in her bed, restless. Henry asked softly, "What troubles you, Clara?"
She shook her head. "Nothing."
He looked at her carefully. "It is about Daniel, is it not?"
Clara's voice grew bitter. "Everyone thinks he is a miracle. They do not see how hard I work for him. They only see his cleverness."
Henry sighed. "Clara, you are his mother now. His success is yours too."
But she turned away. "He is not mine," she whispered. "No matter how much I pretend."
Henry frowned but said no more. He knew her heart had hardened over time, and nothing he said could change it.
The next morning, Daniel woke early as usual. He swept the yard, fetched water, and helped Sarah tie her shoes before school. When he brought Clara her tea, she nodded without looking up.
"Thank you, Mama," he said.
She did not answer.
He paused for a moment, standing there with the empty cup in his hands. He wanted to ask why she was always cold with him now, why her eyes never shone with warmth when she looked at him. But he was afraid of the answer.
That night, after everyone had gone to bed, Daniel lay awake on his mat. The moonlight streamed through the window, soft and pale. He turned the small book he had once won in his hands, the one he had hidden under his pillow years ago.
He whispered to himself, "What did I do wrong? Why does Mama not love me?"
The room was quiet, only the sound of crickets outside. He stared at the ceiling until his eyes grew heavy. Before he fell asleep, a tear slid down his cheek.
He did not know that nothing he had done was wrong. The storm in Clara's heart had nothing to do with him. But as the night stretched on, Daniel felt only the loneliness that came from loving someone who could not love him back.