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Novelo Rectangle

“The rain hasn’t stopped since the machines took control”, the nanny Staphie– a woman in her late forties read aloud. “The children, the neighbours—everyone was scared. It had been going on for the past three weeks. Some thought it was a blessing, others a curse. But no one truly understood the cause. At the very least, they blamed the machines. Yet, in a world driven by scientific evolutions, such things were inevitable.” Staphie glanced up from the storybook, expecting the child to be asleep. Instead, wide eyes stared back at her. Storybooks no longer seemed to lull the child to sleep. Staphie heaved a quiet sigh, closed the book, and placed it on the bedside table. Turning to the boy, she murmured, "Go to sleep." She had just reached the door when a small voice stopped her. "When is Dad coming back?" Another quiet sigh left her lips. "Soon," she said softly. "Good night, Peter." A faint, almost inaudible "Goodnight" followed. Poor child, she thought as she pulled the door shut behind her. When would Michael stop treating his son this way? She felt sorry for him as she made her way down the stairs. Tomorrow was Peter’s birthday. He had sent messages to his father, of course, but she knew deep down that Michael wouldn’t come—just as he hadn’t attended a single birthday since the boy was born. Michael had never liked Peter. Not once. It all started when Cecile, his wife, told him she was pregnant. You see, Michael absolutely loved Cecile. He was crazy about her, doted on her, worshipped the ground she walked on. But the thing was, he had never wanted a child. He was content with just the two of them, living in their perfect little world. So when Cecile announced her pregnancy, he was both frustrated and—though he never said it outright—furious. Over time, he tried to accept it. 𝑇𝑟𝑖𝑒𝑑. And then, the day of delivery came. Cecile was in labour, writhing in agony. Michael had gripped the doctor by the collar, demanding they get the baby out of her immediately, by any means necessary. He was at his wit’s end. Furious—beyond furious—that the child was causing his wife such unbearable pain. When it became clear that Cecile’s body was failing, that she was too weak to push, the doctors decided on a C-section. She agreed. She never made it out alive. Cecile died after Peter was brought into the world. Michael couldn’t handle it. He was livid—at the world, at fate, at that child. He stormed after the doctors and nurses as they wheeled Cecile’s lifeless body away, leaving the newborn crying in the arms of a nurse and Nanny Staphie. Michael never came back to the hospital that day. Not for the baby. One way or another, Nanny Staphie found a way to bring Peter home. And despite Michael’s cold, unwavering rejection, she did her best to care for the boy. Nanny Staphie shook her head, as if to clear away the sad remembrance and sighed heavily. She didn’t want to crush Peter’s hope. That was why, early tomorrow morning, she would be helping him arrange the little get-together he wanted to throw. Her heart ached for the boy. She couldn’t bear the thought of him staring at a table full of untouched food, waiting—waiting for guests who wouldn’t come. Waiting for a father who would surely disappoint him. But then again, she didn’t want to take away his hope. Well, let’s see how tomorrow plays out, she thought. And with that, she headed to bed. Very early the next morning, Nanny Staphie was startled awake by a knock on her door. Rubbing the sleep from her eyes, she got up and swung it open. A tiny, frail boy stood there, practically bouncing on his toes, his small hands tugging at hers. “Good morning, Nanny Staphie!” he chirped, his excitement palpable. She chuckled softly. “Good morning, little one. Did you sleep well?” “Yes, yes! Today is my birthday! I'm eight now.” A shadow of a frown crossed his face before it disappeared. Her smile was warm but tinged with something bittersweet. “Good for you. Come on, let’s start the preparations.” “Okay!” Peter beamed. Together, they got to work, making calls to invite the little guests Peter had carefully chosen. According to him, the party—the little get-together—was set to begin at 1 p.m. Time flew by, and soon, the table was set, the food neatly arranged. But the guests were nowhere to be seen. 1:00 p.m. came and went. Then 1:30. Then 2:00. By 2:30, Peter had stopped glancing at the door every few minutes. By 3:00, his excitement had faded to a quiet fidgeting. By 4:00, the room was silent, save for the hum of the overhead fan and the untouched plates of food growing cold. As always, no one had come. Just as the household workers were about to begin the small conciliatory celebration they held for Peter every year, the door creaked open. Standing in the doorway was none other than Michael Higgins. Nanny Staphie froze. Peter, too, stood rooted to the spot, his breath hitching. His father was here. Here. His wide eyes glistened with unshed tears, held back only by sheer willpower. His lips parted slightly, and for a brief moment, his foot lifted—an instinct, a desperate attempt to step forward. Then Michael walked past him. The moment the door clicked shut behind him, Peter broke. His tiny fists clenched, his lips trembled. He bit down hard—so hard that he tasted blood. With a sharp inhale, he wiped his face aggressively, as though erasing any trace of his foolish hope. Nanny Staphie’s hands curled into fists. Her blood boiled. She had had enough. With determined steps, she marched to Michael’s study and in her annoyance, knocked rather aggressively on the door. A moment later, his voice came from the other side. “Come in.” Michael was hunched over his desk, scribbling something on a stack of papers. He didn’t look up as he spoke. “You're warned now—never knock on my door like that again.” Nanny Staphie clenched her fists, nails biting into her palms. Grinding her teeth, she spat out, “Of course, sir. Why would I ever go against my boss?” Michael glanced up sharply, his eyes cold. “What do you want, Staphie? Out with it. I’m busy.” “Oh, I can see that, sir,” she said, her voice laced with sarcasm. “Don’t take that tone with me,” Michael warned, irritation flickering in his gaze. “Just because you were friends with Cecile doesn’t give you the right to speak to me however you please. For the last time, say what you came here for and leave.” “Alright, sir,” Staphie said, her voice steady now. “Are you aware—or are you just pretending not to be—that today is Peter’s birthday?” Michael exhaled sharply, looking back down at his papers. “I know,” he muttered. Staphie’s jaw tightened. “Then how could you just ignore him like he doesn’t exist? On his birthday, of all days?” Michael’s pen stopped moving. His grip on it tightened. “Staphie, you know I wish to God that he had never been born.” His voice was quiet, but it dripped with venom. “I don’t give a damn about his birthday. If not for my mother, I would have thrown him out of this house.” Sometimes, Michael always why his mother refused to take the boy in and insisted that he raise him himself, saying that the boy needed to be brought up by his father. How ridiculous, he snorted. Staphie’s breath hitched. She knew Michael resented the boy, but to hear him say it so plainly… “How could you even say that Michael” she whispered, horrified. Michael’s head snapped up. “It’s Mr. Michael to you,” he corrected sharply. “Mr. Michael,” Staphie mimicked, her voice shaking with fury. “How could you say that about your own son? Your flesh and blood? Cecile wouldn’t have wanted this. She would be heartbroken to see the way you treat Peter.” “Shut up!” Michael roared, slamming his fist against the desk. “Don’t you dare bring Cecile into this.” “But you know it’s the truth,” Staphie pressed on, her voice unwavering. “That’s why you don’t want to hear it.” “Staphie,” Michael growled, his teeth clenched. “Don’t push me.” “No, Mr Michael. It’s high time you see that you’re being utterly ridiculous,” she shot back. “Peter is your son whether you like it or not.” “He is not my son,” Michael hissed. “Yes, he is,” Staphie said, taking a step closer. “No matter what you say, your blood runs through his veins.” Michael’s nostrils flared. He looked away, jaw tightening. For a moment, just a moment, something flashed across his face—something almost like pain. But then, just as quickly, it was gone. Staphie saw it. And she wasn’t letting this go. Staphie had just opened her mouth to fire another round when a sudden noise at the door made both her and Michael pause. She turned sharply, just in time to see a small shadow retreating—little feet scrambling away in a panicked rush. 𝑂ℎ 𝑛𝑜. Her stomach dropped. Peter had overheard everything. Every single cruel, gut-wrenching word. God only knew what this would do to his already fragile heart. Michael rolled his eyes and shook his head. “That brat,” he muttered under his breath. But Staphie heard him and her. hands curled into fists. “Mr Michael!” she snapped, her voice laced with exasperation and fury. But she didn’t waste another second on him. Spinning on her heel, she bolted out of the room, chasing after Peter. She ran upstairs to his room, flinging the door open—empty. With her heart pounding, she turned and hurried back down, her voice urgent and loud. “Peter! Peter!” No response. She burst through the front door, nearly colliding with Phillip, the gardener. “Have you seen Peter?” she asked a little out of breath. Phillip nodded toward the back. “He’s in the garden.” The garden, of course! How come she hadn't thought about it, she mentally chastised herself. The garden has always been a safe place for Peter. He'd go and hide away there whenever he was feeling so sad. Staphie exhaled shakily, steadying her breath, muttered a quick thanks before making her way there. And there he was. Peter sat alone on a creaky swing, his back to her. The air around him felt unbearably heavy. He didn’t fidget, didn’t move—just sat there, small and still, as though the weight of the world rested on his fragile shoulders. In that quiet moment, he looked like the most desolate, forgotten soul in existence. Staphie’s heart ached. Her eyelids stung. She blinked rapidly, forcing back the tears that had welled in her eyes. Taking a cautious step forward, she accidentally stepped on a twig. It snapped beneath her weight, breaking the calm. Peter didn’t move. Suddenly, a quiet, broken voice floated through the air. “He’ll never love me.” Staphie’s breath hitched. “Oh, Peter,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “Don’t say that.” He sniffled, his voice small yet certain. “He never did, and he never will.” Staphie’s chest tightened at the quiet finality in his tone. “Don’t mind him, Peter,” she said gently. “It’s just his pride and ego getting in the way. I’m sure he’ll come around soon…” She hesitated, then added in a whisper only she could hear, I hope. She took a step closer. “Mind if I join you?” Peter didn’t speak, just gave a small nod. Staphie lowered herself onto the swing beside him, and together they sat in silence, listening to the soft chirping of birds in the evening air. After some time, Peter spoke up. “What was Mum like?” The question tugged at her heartstrings. Staphie inhaled deeply, steadying herself. “She was amazing. Kind, gentle… She would have loved to meet you.” Her voice cracked on the last line. Memories resurfacing in her mind. She remembered Cecile’s excitement, the way she’d light up whenever she spoke about the baby. Do you think he’ll like music? Or maybe he’ll love books, just like me? Cecile would ask, her eyes gleaming. The bittersweet memory brought a small smile to Staphie’s lips. She cleared her throat, pushing back the lump of emotion forming there. “Speaking of her,” she said softly, turning to Peter, “I have a present for you.” “A present? Where?” Peter asked wryly, a flicker of scepticism in his voice. Staphie reached into her pockets, feeling around for the gift she had prepared. Her brows knitted when her fingers couldn’t find it. “Oh no,” she muttered. “Seems I left it in my room. Stay here… I’ll be right back.” With that, she hurried off, dashing back into the house. But just as she reached the hallway leading to the bedrooms, she froze in her tracks. Staphie blinked. Once. Twice. 𝐴𝑚 𝐼 𝑖𝑚𝑎𝑔𝑖𝑛𝑖𝑔 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑠? Standing at the dining table, bent over, was none other than Michael. In his hand was a piece of the cake she and Peter had baked earlier that morning. He was eating it. He was just about to take another bite when he felt a piercing gaze on him. Slowly, he lifted his head, his eyes locking with hers. For a moment, neither of them moved. A tense silence stretched between them. Then, almost too abruptly, Michael straightened, wiped his mouth with a napkin, cleared his throat, and—without a single word—turned on his heel and strode out of the dining room. 𝑊ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑤𝑎𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡? Staphie thought, still processing what she had seen. Did Michael just eat Peter’s birthday cake? Before now, he had never touched anything that belonged to Peter. Was his cold demeanour finally cracking? Was there a chance, even a small one, that he was starting to soften towards his son? She sure hoped so. And then she facepalmed herself. In all the shock, she had forgotten the reason she had come into the house. Shaking off the moment, she hurried to her room. There, on the table, lay the present she had prepared. She hoped Peter would like it. Back in the garden, Staphie unlocked her phone and handed it to Peter. “Happy birthday,” she whispered. Peter furrowed his brows in confusion. “Why are you giving me your phone, Nanny Staphie?” “Click that video and watch,” she instructed. Peter did as he was told. The screen lit up, and a video began to play. A pregnant woman appeared, her face glowing with happiness. She was gently rubbing her belly, her eyes full of warmth and love. Peter recognised her instantly. Her pictures were literally hanging all over the house. It was his mother. Then, Nanny Staphie entered the frame, smiling just as brightly. “What are you going to name him?” she asked. Cecile turned to the camera, her expression softening even more. “Peter,” she said. “I’ll name him Peter.” Both women laughed joyously. The video ended. Silence followed. Then, in a voice thick with emotion, Peter whispered a single word. “Mother.” At the sound of the longing in his voice, fresh tears welled up in Staphie’s eyes. She fought to hold them back, but this time, she lost. They spilled down her cheeks, warm and unrestrained. “Oh, Peter,” she murmured, leaning in to ruffle his hair. Peter sniffled and wiped at his eyes, then looked up at her. “Thank you for the present,” he said, his voice quiet with unspoken emotions. “I love it.” Staphie wiped her tears. “I’m glad you do.” Peter tilted his head back and gazed up at the sky. A single tear slipped down his cheek—a tear not just of sadness, but of acceptance. “I’m always here for you, okay, Peter?” Staphie reminded him gently. Peter nodded. “Okay.” Just then, his stomach grumbled. “I’m hungry, nanny Staphie,” he said. Staphie hesitated, suddenly reminded of what she had seen in thedining room. Should she tell him? No. It was best not to give him hope only for it to be crushed later on. She'll wait and see how things go. “I’ll go prepare your favorite meal for you,” she said instead. “How does that sound?” Peter beamed, his face lighting up with a full smile—his first in a long while. “Yeah. Sounds good.” 𝓣𝓱𝓮 𝓮𝓷𝓭.

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For Peter

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For Peter

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