Mother Goose had done this before.
She had planned birthday parties for centuries—celebrations of every kind, from the simplest home gatherings to the grandest feasts in the courts of fairy kings and mortal emperors alike. She had organized tea parties for the Queen of the Moon, feasts for the Starry Shepherd, and even once coordinated a banquet inside a dragon's hoard (though that one ended with some… minor furniture damage).
This would be easy.
Or at least, that's what she told herself.
Standing in the middle of the House of the Hearth, Mother Goose placed her hands on her hips and surveyed her domain. The great hall was spacious, warm, and filled with far too many energetic children. The air buzzed with anticipation as the young ones awaited their birthday celebration.
"Alright, my darlings!" she declared, voice brimming with confidence. "Today, we are going to have the grandest birthday party this house has ever seen! There will be cakes, games, music—oh, it will be marvelous!"
A chorus of cheers erupted. The children hopped excitedly, their little faces shining with joy.
Even Father Hearth, standing by the fireplace with his ever-stoic expression, gave a slow, approving nod. "It will be done."
Mother Goose clapped her hands together. Yes! This was going perfectly.
Then—the chaos began.
Step One: The Cake
Mother Goose had baked cakes before. She had flawless technique, and she had brought all the finest ingredients: fluffy flour from the eastern winds, honey kissed by the morning sun, and enchanted sugar spun from the dreams of children. This would be an easy step.
Or so she thought.
"Why is the oven… roaring?" she asked, eyes narrowing at the large brick oven built into the wall.
One of the children, covered in flour, beamed up at her. "That's because we made the fire REALLY strong so it cooks faster!"
Mother Goose looked inside.
The flames were blue. The heat was intense. And the batter was bubbling like a potion gone wrong.
Father Hearth, standing beside her, spoke in his usual calm voice. "The hearth fire is alive."
"…Excuse me?"
He gestured toward the flickering flames. "The children wished for a faster cake. The fire answered."
As if on cue, the flames hissed in agreement.
Mother Goose sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Alright. We'll… figure it out."
Step Two: Decorations
Mother Goose had envisioned elegant banners, delicate garlands, and floating lanterns—something warm and magical.
The children had a different idea.
One moment, she turned away to prepare the table. The next, the ceiling was covered in haphazardly strung paper chains, balloons were tied to random objects (including a startled-looking cat), and someone had somehow painted a giant smiling sun with googly eyes on the wall.
"Who did this?" Mother Goose demanded.
A group of children pointed at Father Hearth.
Mother Goose whirled toward him.
Father Hearth sipped his tea, completely unbothered. "They wanted a sun."
She gestured wildly. "It's got googly eyes!"
Father Hearth took another sip. "They insisted."
Step Three: Games
Mother Goose was experienced in party games. She had prepared a list—pin the tail on the donkey, treasure hunts, relay races.
But the children of the House of the Hearth… had their own traditions.
"Alright, what games do you usually play?" she asked, trying to involve them.
One of the older children grinned mischievously. "Hearth Beast Chase."
"…I don't like the sound of that."
Before she could ask, the children scattered, summoning tiny elemental creatures made of fire and light. They darted through the room, and the children chased them with wild glee. One of the firelings leaped onto the table, narrowly missing the precariously balanced cake. Another zoomed past Father Hearth, singeing part of his sleeve (which, to her frustration, he did not react to at all).
"Isn't this dangerous?" she called over the laughter and chaos.
Father Hearth merely watched the children with a calm expression. "They will not be harmed. The fire is kind."
At that moment, one of the tiny fire beasts jumped onto her hat, setting the feather trim ablaze.
"The fire is not kind!"
Step Four: Presents
Finally, it was time for gifts. Mother Goose had prepared storybooks, carved toys, little trinkets from the fairy realms. The children eagerly lined up to receive them, eyes bright with excitement.
And then… Father Hearth approached.
In his hands, he carried something heavy, wrapped in cloth. The children whispered with excitement—this was rare.
Mother Goose tilted her head. "Oh? What did you bring?"
Father Hearth unwrapped it slowly. Inside was a large, ancient-looking cauldron with deep engravings.
Mother Goose stared at it. Then at him. Then at the smallest child, who was struggling to even lift it.
"…A cauldron?"
Father Hearth nodded. "It will teach them patience. And how to cook properly."
Mother Goose pressed her hands to her face, exhaling.
One of the children hugged the cauldron like it was a prized treasure.
Step Five: The Final Disaster
Everything almost came together in the end. The children were happy. The cake (somehow) turned out delicious. The decorations were… unique, but charming.
And then the food fight started.
Mother Goose did not even know who started it.
One moment, she was sipping tea, feeling mildly proud that she had conquered the chaos of the House of the Hearth.
The next, a giant spoonful of mashed potatoes hit her square in the face.
Silence.
She slowly wiped the potatoes from her eyes, turned, and glared at Father Hearth.
He was entirely unscathed, sipping his tea like nothing was happening, even as children hurled pastries at each other around him.
Mother Goose took a deep breath. Then, with slow, deliberate movements, she grabbed a handful of pudding—and flung it at him.
It hit him right in the chest.
The children gasped.
Father Hearth looked down at the mess on his robes. Then, after a long pause, he simply picked up a spoon and flicked a small amount of jam back at her.
That was all it took.
The children erupted in cheers, and the birthday party descended into an all-out food war.
Aftermath
By the time the chaos settled, the great hall was a disaster zone. The walls were splattered with frosting, the floor was covered in crumbs, and the children were delighted beyond words.
Mother Goose slumped into a chair, utterly exhausted.
Father Hearth, still as composed as ever, finished his tea and gave a slow nod. "It was a good celebration."
Mother Goose glared at him. "I have thrown a thousand parties, and none were this difficult."
Father Hearth, completely serious, simply responded:
"That is because you have never thrown a party… for children of the hearth."
Mother Goose opened her mouth—then closed it.
Because, as much as she hated to admit it, he was absolutely right.