“Aren’t you going out to play with your friends during the winter holidays?”

It was three days into the winter holidays.
My mother asked me this as I ate my breakfast in silence.
It was a topic born from her concern for me, who had recently started building walls around myself again, even within the family.
　I understood that for Mum, hearing her daughter talk about school events or her close friendship with Amamiya Tōru (as a friend) was one source of reassurance. I also understood her anxiety about wanting to prevent me from retreating into my shell alone.

So Mum simply wanted to use my favourite friend, whom I often talked about, as a conversation starter.
I knew that.

　But right now, it was an incredibly severe and sensitive matter for me.

Even though she knew nothing about it.
She shouldn’t have interfered.

Even knowing I was taking it out on her, the crimson-black emotion smouldering inside me erupted, impossible to suppress.

I slammed my fist down on the table.

“Mashiro?”

My sudden action startled Mum.
　When our eyes met, even in this situation, concern for her daughter seemed to outweigh her surprise.
It only deepened my sense of guilt, followed by self-loathing.

Stop it.
This crimson-black emotion shouldn’t be directed at Mum.
Hurting the person who’s watched over me, supported me since I was little… That must never happen.

But Mum spoke to me as I wrestled with myself.
　Her gaze fixed on me, utterly clear and earnest.

“Mashiro, if you have something to say, tell Mummy now, right here.”

No. No. Mummy, don’t egg me on like that.
Lately, my head’s been full of Amamiya Tōru, and I’ve barely slept at night. I’m incredibly irritable.
There’s a high chance I’d say things to Mummy I don’t want to say.

　I bow my head and shake it.

“………You know, Mashiro, I was truly delighted when you told me about your friends.”

Mother speaks.
What must she think of a daughter like this? Overwhelmed by so many things, at a dead end, taking it out on objects, and finally even hurling abuse at the parents who raised her.
Mother speaks softly, as if reminiscing.

“The daughter I gave birth to after such pain wasn’t very good at interacting with people. Even as a small child, she’d retreat to a corner of her room, reading picture books and building her own world.”
“……”
“That didn’t change through nursery, primary school, or secondary school, even as she grew taller. Eventually, she started resenting me asking about school at home.”

That’s right. I’d never understood how to communicate properly, even back then.
　I simply couldn’t muster enough interest in others to hold a proper conversation.
I was isolated at school. Nothing was interesting. The world I saw grew increasingly colourless. When asked about such dull matters at home, I had no idea how to respond.

“This was my fault, you know. Your father said early on we should just leave you be, but I was worried about my daughter. I couldn’t help wondering if you were being bullied or something. So I kept pestering you with questions, even though you clearly hated it. ………Then, you started putting up walls against us too.”

I lifted my face from where it had been lowered.
Because Mum’s voice had trembled.
　I couldn’t help but look at her face, thinking, No way.

She was crying.

No, she was desperately holding back tears, trying to put into words what she needed to tell me.

Seeing her like that, the raw, red-hot emotions welling up inside me began to calm. Gradually, what rose within me wasn’t self-loathing, but the certain warmth I’d always received from my family.
I felt like crying too.

I’ve regretted it all this time. Even if Masaki couldn’t laugh at school, her home —this family —should have been the one place where she could laugh from the bottom of her heart.

……… Mum.
And yet, we, her parents, left our daughter alone.
………
I’m sorry, Masaki.

Tears overflowed from Mum’s cheeks and streamed down.
　But she did not wipe them away.
She was determined not to cry in front of her daughter, not here and now. She was trying to appear strong as a parent, in front of her daughter, me.

“But that’s precisely why, when Mashiro told us she had friends at high school, I was so incredibly happy. I felt relieved that my daughter wasn’t alone. I even felt grateful, time and again, that those friends were doing for her what we couldn’t.”
“………”
“After she made friends, Masaki gradually started telling us, her family, about school things herself. Actually, Mum and Dad even shed a little tear together.”

Even as school approached winter break, he was the workaholic who left early for work and returned late at night. That was my image of my father.
Yet even such a man worried about his daughter and shed tears of joy alongside my mother.

　My own held-back tears reached their limit and spilled over.

Ah, I really am loved by my family.
Loved beyond measure.

Amamiya Tōru once said to me.
That Mashiro was a very warm, gentle light.
I didn’t quite understand it at the time, but if I possess any gentleness, it must surely be the light I inherited firmly from my parents.
　The warmth I’m receiving from Mum right now is proof of that.

“We’re overjoyed, but we’ve also decided that this time, we’ll be our daughter’s absolute anchor. It’s fine if she prioritises her friends over us. It’s fine if she becomes engrossed in school and finds it enjoyable. But when our daughter feels lonely out there, when she finds herself alone again, we, her parents, will be there to support her with all our strength.”
“…!”

I couldn’t hold back any longer.
　No matter how hard I tried to hold them back, tears kept streaming down my face.
I wiped them away, one after another.
But even through my blurred vision, I didn’t want to take my eyes off Mum for even a moment.

The sight of parents trying to stay strong looms large.
It’s reassuring and kind.

“Hey, Mashiro.”
“………What?”
“I won’t ask you to tell me everything you’re struggling with right now.”
“………Alright.”
“But I want you to remember this.”
“………Alright.”
“When you’re truly in trouble, rely on us. When you feel you’ve reached your limit alone, your parents will be your strength. And don’t carry too much on your own. When painful, awful things pile up and you feel utterly desperate to let it out, tell me. Take it out on me. It’s a parent’s privilege.”

　Saying this, Mum smiled crinkly-eyed, unconcerned about her reddened eyes.
She smiled at me.

Just a little longer, I thought, I’ll trust Amamiya Tōru.
I felt I could try to be positive and persevere patiently.

I adore my family.
I adore Mum and Dad.

Because this family I adore so much supports me, I feel I can move forward again.