“Still sitting there, useless boy. You are useless, just like your father. He’s nothing but a weak old fool now. And you’re just like him—good for nothing.”
Obie felt anger rise inside him.
“Don’t talk about my father like that,” he cried, his voice shaky but strong. “He is not useless. He is a good man, and you are cruel to him.”
His stepmother’s eyes burned with rage.
“How dare you speak to me like that, you rude child!”
She rushed forward and slapped him.
“I’ll teach you to respect your elders. I’ll teach you to know your place!”
Obie stumbled back, tears filling his eyes, but he refused to cry out. He covered his head with his arms as she kept hitting him.
When she finally stopped, she pointed a shaking finger at him.
“Get out of my sight. Get out of this house. I never want to see your face again.”
Obie whispered to himself, a tear running down his cheek, “I can’t stay here anymore. Father is sick, and she treats us both terribly. I need to find a place where I can breathe, where I won’t always be reminded of this sadness.”
With a small old bag holding only a few dried fruits and a worn blanket, Obie left the house and disappeared into the night.
No one knew where he went. His stepmother did not care, and his father was too ill to notice.
Obie was gone—a lonely boy lost in the wide, unknown world.
He walked for days, sleeping under the stars and eating whatever he could find. Eventually, he found a quiet, hidden part of the forest, far from the village, where he felt safe. He decided it would be his new home for now. He dreamed of building a small, strong shelter, a place where he could live in peace.
One sunny afternoon, as he was digging a hole to begin building his tiny house, he hit something strange.
“What’s this?” he wondered.
Leave a Comment