The House of the Hearth stood tall and sturdy, a monument to warmth and stability. The great stone walls hummed with the steady pulse of an ever-burning fire, and the grand wooden beams overhead bore witness to countless meals, lessons, and quiet moments of companionship.
And tonight, it bore witness to chaos.
"Unhand that pie this instant, young man!" Mother Goose's voice rang through the hall like the chime of a dramatic bell.
A boy—perhaps seven years old, cheeks dusted with flour—froze mid-theft, fingers wrapped around a steaming slice of pie. His wide, guilty eyes darted between the strict glare of Mother Goose and the unfazed, unbothered figure of Father Hearth sitting at the head of the long table.
Father Hearth, without looking up from his plate, simply said: "If you take it, finish it. No wasting food."
The boy blinked. Then, without hesitation, he shoved the whole piece into his mouth.
Mother Goose gasped, clutching her chest as if she had been mortally wounded. "You enable this madness, Hearth! You allow these poor, innocent children to behave like—like—" She gestured wildly toward the table, where at least three other children were already engaged in a battle over a loaf of freshly baked bread.
"I allow them to eat," Father Hearth corrected, taking another calm bite of his stew. "They are children. They require sustenance."
"Sustenance?" Mother Goose huffed, taking her seat in an exaggerated flourish. "No, my dear, what they require is refinement! Elegance! A proper dining experience where one does not—" she pointed dramatically toward a toddler gleefully dunking an entire roll into their soup "—commit crimes against the culinary arts!"
The toddler gurgled happily, unimpressed by her theatrics.
Father Hearth finally looked at her, expression as steady as ever. "Did you expect order?"
She squinted at him. "I expect civilization, Hearth."
"Then you are in the wrong house."
A particularly loud crash interrupted their conversation as one of the older children tipped over a bowl of vegetables, sending carrots tumbling across the floor. The child froze, eyes darting toward Father Hearth, waiting for a punishment.
Father Hearth did not scold. He merely gestured to the mess. "Clean it up."
The child nodded hurriedly and scrambled to gather the fallen food.
Mother Goose pressed a hand to her temple, exasperated. "You run this house like a military barrack."
"I run it like a home," he corrected. "One that teaches responsibility."
"Responsibility?" She arched a brow, reaching for her goblet of wine. "Where was responsibility when this table turned into a battlefield?"
One of the older children, a girl with bright eyes and a mischievous grin, piped up, "It wasn't a battlefield, Mother Goose. It was an important trade negotiation."
Mother Goose gave her an unimpressed look. "Ah, yes, because trading bread for pie through threats and blackmail is what truly defines diplomacy."
The girl shrugged. "You taught us storytelling. We're just making our own legends."
Mother Goose opened her mouth, then closed it.
Father Hearth, watching the exchange, simply said, "They learn well."
Mother Goose groaned dramatically. "You are impossible."
"I am practical."
The meal continued in its usual chaos, with children laughing, shouting, and eating with reckless enthusiasm. Every now and then, a bowl would tip, a cup would spill, and yet—no one was scolded beyond a calm instruction to clean up.
As the evening stretched on and plates slowly emptied, the energy at the table dimmed to a soft hum. The younger children began to droop in their chairs, some leaning against their siblings, others resting their heads on the table.
Mother Goose watched them with a small, secret smile, swirling the last of her wine. "For all your discipline, Hearth, you allow them much freedom."
"They are children," he replied simply. "They should feel safe."
Mother Goose tilted her head, regarding him with an unreadable expression. "A house may be warm, but it is the people within who make it a home."
Father Hearth met her gaze, steady and unwavering. "Exactly."
A comfortable silence settled between them.
And as the last of the children were ushered to their rooms, the House of the Hearth remained as steady and unshakable as ever—a place of warmth, chaos, and the kind of love that did not need to be spoken.