Chapter I

“Great job, as always, Rosamunde.” remarks my boss, a man in mid-forties with a thick, well-combed moustache, almost reminding you of a certain Nazi dictator.

My day job is as a photojournalist at the company that he owns, something that aligns with my hobby which is photography. I also am a part-time freelance photographer for events such as weddings, birthday parties, and such, which I may say I am more delighted to do than my day job, albeit way lower when it comes to salary.

For some time now, I have been pondering about quitting my job. No, I do not hate it, nor do I have workmates with whom I do not get along with.

Not at all.

 The workplace may be small but it is perfectly comfortable and conducive enough for most to consider working for this company as a lifetime job. Not to brag, but I also am being paid very well despite spending a lot less time as a regular employee than my workmates because of, as they say, my “innate talent in photography”. The reason for wanting to walk away from this “dream job” is, in all honesty, beyond me.

“Listen, Mr. Wayne ...” I spoke. The boss’ face displayed a mixture of surprise and confusion as if humongous exclamation and question marks popped out of his head.

He, along with my workmates, have known me as a timid, reserved lady who lets her job do the talking. I have always been recognized by others as the mature type, although how I have known myself is an entirely different story. With such, me speaking for myself is a thing for them.

“I’ve been thinking about quitting this job.” I added.

The boss’ face turned into that of worry and dismay as I spoke of something which seems to be the object of his concern for as long as I have been thinking of quitting.

“Why, is something the matter? Are you being bothered by your workmates? Or are you perhaps offered a better paycheck by another company?” he expressed worriedly.

I felt a pang realizing how much the company valued me. Leaving the place is no different from how it feels when you move out of the house you grew up in for college, or when you get separated from your parents to get married. It hurts, but you know that every one of your next steps will only lead you to something better, only that this time, I have no idea of what awaits me after quitting.

“No, it’s nothing like that, Mr. Wayne. Everyone treated me well and I cannot express how thankful I am to have been a part of this company …” I said. “… but I have always felt that this is not what I wanted to do. I do enjoy the job, but I have always felt that I need to explore, to find something that fulfills me.” I added. I held my head low.

Surprisingly, the look on Mr. Wayne’s face relaxed, his shoulders dropped as he let out a deep sigh. “You loved seeing the smiles of people, do you not?” asked the boss. “I have wondered why it is that you take low-paying freelance jobs despite being from a well-off family and having paid a decent salary. It is not the money that you were after, is it? It’s the smiles.” He said with a gentle smile.

Surprised, my head raised on its own. “That … may be true, sir.” I responded.

“Write your resignation paper and hand it over, first thing in the morning. I am eternally grateful for everything that you have done for this company. Truly, I am, Rosamunde.” remarks Mr. Wayne.

He has become more than just a boss for me; more than someone I work for and who hands over my salary. He has become my mentor and has helped me improve my craft as a beginner in the field. A father figure may be what best describes what he has been to me, and as I move on from his guidance, I, too, was kind of hurt.

“I appreciate your understanding, sir. I sincerely hope the company well.”

Something subtly pierced my chest, I felt.

When I stepped out of the company building, the sun was in the middle of its momentary demise, painting the surroundings with a brownish-orange hue. I believe, should I be seeing the sunset right now, it could be the one of the most beautiful I would my entire life, but unfortunately, the tall buildings disallow such instance. Come to think of it, never in my memories have I ever saw a sunset in person, have I? Perhaps I did but that, I guess is far from what my memories can serve.

These thoughts fleet on my mind as I walked towards my car. I got inside, rested my behind at the comfort of the seat, and slammed the door.

I also slammed both my palms at the surface of my face out of fear that my decision may be the worst that I took ever since taking my first breath on this planet.

“Did I do the right thing?” I asked myself.

From a logical standpoint, it is heretic to quit a job such as mine which can be considered a haven as compared to other jobs of the same nature. I guess it is just one of those which is “not for me”. But even still, I am aware that it is not enough reason, and thus, this fear encapsulating my mind.

But the thing is, I have decided and there is no turning back now.

Now, I can focus more on myself.

No, that’s not it. That’s not what I wanted.

I can make excuses all I want but deep inside, I know that the reason I have for leaving the company is something related to what Mr. Wayne said.

Perhaps, I do love smiles.

Because the reason why I quit my job, that exact reason I cannot admit even to myself, is because I want to see the smiles of Laura and her father; the family of my best friend.

The car’s engine sounded as I turned the keys and I proceeded to drive home a few minutes after sunset.

“This is all for you, Mary” I uttered to myself.

When I got home, the only lights that Illuminate the surroundings except for the dim crescent moonlight and the stars are the flickering streetlights unsure of whether it wants to remain functioning or not and the warm lights coming from inside the homes of families having dinner.

One of those houses happens to be mine, only that my parents may already be on the bed, for they are used to taking dinner before the sun completely sets. They are pretty old, after all.

As an only child, I used to be the only one who has been with them for around thirty-three years, which has made it hard for me to leave this house. I always worry that something might happen to them or they may end up sulking if I leave, and I would hate for that to happen to two of the very few people I really, deeply care about.

As I have said, the time when I was the lone princess inside this considerably huge house sporting a rustic western theme only lasted for a good amount of more than three decades before Laura came.

After her mother had died following an accident involving her father, she was left under my guidance. Her father, as you may know, was able to survive but is still mentally incapable of even living on his own, and hence, I took custody of her, also as per Luke’s request. Of course, I took care of the legal side of things, and should Luke learn to stand up anew, I would happily let the two of them reunite.

Well, not that I was the one taking care of her because I know nothing of such endeavor being a 33-year-old single, and with such, I let my parents play the part of raising her, and I; a loving aunt.

I walked through the stone path leading to the wooden entrance of my house and noticed that the light inside Laura’s room has yet to be turned off, suggesting that she is yet again having trouble sleeping. I used to think that this is only because she was not accustomed to the way my parents sleep so early but a few months have passed and these nights still occasionally occur which led me to think that perhaps she, too, is having difficulty dealing with the loss of her mother and basically, her father. As expected of a child.

Aware that she will be sitting on the other side of the door with her beloved stuffed toy, Mr. Cuddles waiting for my arrival, I wasted no time searching for the keys from the disastrously unorganized insides of my bag, and instead, made three gentle knocks.

“Laura, dear. Are you having trouble sleeping again?” I asked.

She hastily stood up and reached for the knob which is a little bit too high for her and so, the wooden floor sounded as she ran across the house to search for something to stand on.

“Be careful, dear. You need not to hurry. Aunt’s not going anywhere.”

When she came back, she stood on what sounded like a wooden plank and immediately opened the door. She then gave me a tight hug on the left thigh, not wanting to let go any time soon.

“Is something the matter, dear?” I asked as I sat on my feet and started to stroke her head in an attempt to comfort her.

The little girl shook her head gently as a response.

“Alright, Aunt will get changed and tonight, we will be sleeping together. Would that be fine?” I asked. Something must have been bothering her, and it’s not as if I have no idea what it is, so I decided to comfort her this evening. And besides, now that I have quit my job, I can spend more time with her and her father, to try and lure him to becoming a human being again. After all, nothing beats the care a parent can give to his own child, I thought.

Oh, and before I forget, I have no idea how to tell my parents about my resignation.

I finished my nighttime bath at around eight and changed into my sleeping clothes. Before going to my room where Laura currently is, playing with my phone, I decided to get some warm milk to aid the two of us’ sleep.

“Poor child.” I thought to myself while waiting for the glasses of milk to heat up.

She is a very intelligent little girl, as expected of the child of two undisputed geniuses. She is as crazy for numbers as her parents. Her demeanor and how she respects other people show that in spite of their highly intellectual nature, her parents were able to care for her and raise her well; she was loved.

I, too, was a witness to how much Mary and Luke loved Laura.

Once, when Laura was five, she participated in a mathematics competition for children aged eight and won second. She burst into tears after knowing that another child bested her on a field that she loved the most. I drove them home, besides being their photographer for the event, and Mary asked me to stop at a certain store. She came back after a few moments with nothing on her hands, so I assumed that whatever she brought was already inside her bag.

When we got to their home, Luke was already there. She then pinned a first-place ribbon on the left chest of her husband and a third-place one on hers.

“See? Being second is not always bad, right honey?” she told her daughter with a gentle smile. “Does it not mean that you are actually one of the best?”

The milk was already boiling as I was lost in thought of those memories.

I then walked to my room with my left hand occupied by the plate containing the glasses of milk. My right hand busied itself with the task of opening the door to my room.

As I opened the door, what I saw was not a child playing with my phone, but one who is crying. I put the glasses on the table next to my bed and approached her, hugged her by the head with another arm stroking her hair.

“It’s alright, dear … it’s alright.” I spoke.

These are the times when I wish I know more about children and parenting than I do.

My eyes were led to my phone which is on Laura’s hand as I wondered what it is that has been bothering this poor little child.

What I saw is not a mobile game, but the picture of the three of them, Mary, Laura, and Luke, on that very day of the competition. The picture that I took of them as they sport the ribbons that Laura won and Mary brought.