THE CAGE THAT LOVED
The window stayed closed the next morning. Not because my mother asked for it again, but because nobody thought to open it. That is how certain things begin in families. Quietly. Without announcement. A curtain pulled once for comfort slowly becomes the natural shape of the room. And after a while, nobody remembers there was once light falling differently on the walls. A few weeks later, my son brought home two lovebirds. He carried them carefully, with both hands, as though joy itself could spill if tilted too quickly. Their cage was too bright for our house. Blue bars. Small mirrors. Wood swings. Tiny bowls made to look like flowers. The kind of colours childhood trusts completely. “They were lonely in the shop,” he told me. I nodded, because children always believe love means bringing something closer. The birds adjusted quickly. Faster than I expected. Within days they had memorised the geography of the cage. Which corner held food. Which swing moved less. Which side ...