Chapter 1 The Little Girl Who Was Loved
I used to believe that the world was a gentle place.
Perhaps it was because I grew up surrounded by little things that made life feel beautiful—the warmth of my mother’s embrace, the flowers that bloomed beneath the morning sun, and the familiar sound of someone calling my name with affection.
At eight years old, I had not yet learned that happiness could be fragile. I knew nothing about the cruel ways people could hurt one another, nor did I understand why some hearts carried sadness they never spoke about.
All I knew was that I was loved.
And for a little girl like me, that seemed enough.
My name is Juliana Amelia Hadleigh, although Mama has always preferred calling me Julia. She says it sounds softer, sweeter, and somehow more suited to the little girl who once refused to sleep without holding her favourite stuffed rabbit.
I live in a beautiful mansion surrounded by gardens, tall windows, and flowers that seem to bloom in every corner. Our home is spacious enough for footsteps to echo along its hallways, yet my favourite place has never been the grand staircase or the enormous living room.
It has always been wherever Mama is.
Victoria Mcbride Hadleigh is the most beautiful woman I know. Not simply because of her gentle features or the way her hair falls gracefully over her shoulders, but because she possesses a kind of warmth that makes even the quietest mornings feel alive.
She is my sunshine on cloudy days, my shelter whenever the world becomes frightening, and the person I look for whenever something wonderful happens.
Every morning, she comes into my bedroom to wake me.
“Good morning, my little sunshine.”
I would usually pretend to be asleep, hoping she might give me another kiss before pulling the curtains open.
And she always does.
“Julia, sweetheart. It’s time to wake up.”
“Just five more minutes, Mama.”
“Five more minutes? You said that yesterday.”
I would bury my face beneath the blanket, making her laugh.
Those were the mornings I treasured most.
Perhaps because my childhood had always required a little more care than other children’s.
I was born with a heart condition. Mama told me that my heart was delicate and that I needed to be careful with myself. I was not allowed to exhaust my body, run too much, or join certain games that other children enjoyed without a second thought.
Sometimes, I watched them playing from the windows of our home.
I wondered what it felt like to run until the wind tangled your hair, to jump without worrying about falling, or to laugh so hard that your stomach began to hurt.
I wanted those things too.
But Mama always reminded me that being different did not mean being less.
“You don’t have to do everything other children can do, sweetheart,” she once told me while brushing my hair. “You only have to take care of yourself and remember to enjoy the little things.”
I believed her.
At least, I tried to.
There was only one thing that made our beautiful home feel a little incomplete.
Papa.
His name is Capt. Sylvan Dion Hadleigh, and he is a ship captain whose work takes him across distant seas. His journeys often keep him away for months, sometimes long enough for me to forget the exact sound of his footsteps approaching the front door.
Whenever he comes home, he brings stories from places I have never seen and little gifts from countries whose names I sometimes struggle to pronounce.
I love listening to him.
I love the way he tells me about the ocean, the ships, and the cities waiting beyond the horizon.
But I wish his stories did not always have to end with him leaving again.
“Is Papa coming home soon?” I asked Mama one morning.
She was arranging flowers in a glass vase when she turned toward me.
“He’s still working, my love.”
“Does he miss me?”
Her hands paused briefly.
“Of course he does.”
I looked down at the little ribbon I was holding.
“I miss him too.”
Mama approached and gently tucked a strand of hair behind my ear.
“I know, sweetheart.”
“Will he be home for dinner?”
“I don’t think so today.”
I nodded, pretending that the answer did not make me sad.
Mama knelt before me and held my hands.
“Your father loves you, Julia. Sometimes, people have responsibilities that take them far away, but distance doesn’t have to change the love we have for them.”
I looked at her and smiled.
“Then I’ll wait for him.”
She kissed my forehead.
“That’s my girl.”
I did not know then that there were things adults could hide behind reassuring smiles. I did not know that a house could hold secrets as easily as it held memories.
All I knew was that Papa was somewhere across the sea, and Mama was right there beside me.
And I was happy with that.
Our garden was my favourite place whenever the weather was kind.
I loved sitting beside the flowers with my colouring books, drawing little houses, butterflies, and gardens that looked nothing like the real ones.
Mama sometimes joined me, bringing a cup of tea and sitting nearby while I explained every little detail of my drawings.
“Why did you make that flower purple?” she asked one afternoon.
“Because I like purple.”
“And the yellow one?”
“Because it looks happy.”
She smiled.
“Do flowers have feelings?”
I nodded seriously.
“Maybe they do. We just don’t know how to hear them.”
Mama laughed softly.
“Then perhaps you should keep talking to them.”
I grinned and returned to my drawing.
There were so many things I wanted to understand about the world. I wanted to know why the sky changed colours, why flowers followed the sunlight, and why people sometimes smiled even when their eyes looked sad.
I was a curious little girl.
But more than anything, I wanted to believe that the beautiful things around me would remain exactly as they were.
That the flowers would continue blooming.
That Mama would always be there to wake me.
That Papa would eventually come home.
And that every tomorrow would be just as gentle as today.
I had no reason to doubt any of those things.
Not yet.
That evening, Mama helped me prepare for bed.
She pulled the blanket over me and placed a gentle kiss on my forehead.
“Goodnight, my little sunshine.”
“Goodnight, Mama.”
She was about to leave when I reached for her hand.
“Mama?”
“Yes, sweetheart?”
“Can you stay a little longer?”
Her expression softened.
“Of course.”
She sat beside me, and I moved closer until my head rested against her arm.
For a while, neither of us spoke.
I listened to the quiet sounds of the house, the distant rustling of leaves outside my window, and the steady rhythm of Mama’s breathing.
I liked moments like these.
They made me feel as though nothing in the world could ever reach me.
If someone had asked me what happiness looked like, I would have described that evening.
A warm bedroom.
A mother’s gentle hand.
And the comforting certainty that I was not alone.
I closed my eyes, holding on to her fingers.
I did not know how many beautiful things I would someday wish to return to.
I did not know how precious an ordinary evening could become when all you had left were memories.
I was only a little girl.
And once, the world was kind enough to let me believe that love could keep everything safe.
