Two ways to grow
Once upon a time, there was a boy named Eli. He lived in a quiet neighborhood with his mother and father. Their house was small but nice. People smiled on the street, and Eli played with the kids next door. To everyone else, Eli's family looked like a normal, happy home.
But inside, things were different.
Eli's parents loved him, but they taught him in very different ways.
His mother, Clara, always told him to be careful. She believed the world was dangerous. She said, "Don't trust people too much," and "Always pretend everything is okay, even when it's not." She taught him to smile even when he was sad, to hide how he felt, and to walk away before people could hurt him.
"Be smart, not soft," she would say.
His father, Joseph, was not like that at all. He believed in being honest, strong, and kind. He told Eli, "Say what you mean. If you make a mistake, fix it. If you feel something, speak up." He taught Eli to fix bikes, to shake hands firmly, and to always tell the truth — even when it was hard.
"You don't have to be perfect," Joseph said once, "but you should always be real."
Eli was stuck in the middle. At school, he used what his mother taught him — he smiled, followed the rules, and didn't let anyone know when he was upset. At home, especially when he was with his father, he felt safe to be himself.
One day, Eli was given a school assignment. He had to write an essay called "What Makes a Person Good?"
He sat on the back porch with a pencil and a blank paper. He thought about what his mother would say — "Good is what people see. Always look perfect." Then he thought about what his father would say — "Good is what you do when no one is watching."
He didn't know which one was true.
His father came outside with a drink and asked, "Need help?"
Eli nodded. "I don't know what to write."
"Start with the truth," Joseph said. "It's always a good place."
"But I have two truths," Eli said quietly. "Mom's truth and your truth."
Joseph was quiet for a moment. Then he said, "You're learning from both of us. One day, you'll have to choose the kind of person you want to be."
That night, as Eli lay in bed, he thought about his father's words.
He didn't have the answer yet, but he knew one thing: he was growing up in two different ways — one from his mother, one from his father. And someday, he would have to choose which way to follow.
Eli woke up to the smell of fried plantains. It was Saturday, which meant chores and cartoons. But more than anything, Saturdays were the days when his parents were both around. That was both the best and hardest part.
He lay in bed for a while, staring at the ceiling. The essay from yesterday still sat in his notebook, unfinished. The words were heavy in his head but wouldn't land right on paper. He had written three different introductions and crossed all of them out. One said, "A good person is someone who smiles and says the right thing." Another said, "A good person is honest and stands by their word." But Eli didn't feel like either version really belonged to him. They were borrowed truths — not his own.
He got out of bed and shuffled into the kitchen. His mother was at the stove in her wrapper and slippers, flipping plantains with care. The oil sizzled, and the smell made his stomach rumble.
"Morning," he mumbled.
"Good morning, my dear," she replied, smiling without turning. "Wash your face and get ready to sweep the living room."
Eli obeyed, washing up and grabbing the broom. As he swept, he heard his father's voice in the backyard, singing an old song off-key while fixing something. Eli peered through the curtain. Joseph was shirtless, sweating in the sun, bending over a pile of tools. He always seemed to be fixing something — bicycles, furniture, radios, even people when they needed advice.
Eli finished sweeping and went to join him.
"Morning, Papa," he said.
Joseph looked up and grinned. "Ah! My helper has arrived. Come, pass me that spanner."
Eli handed it over and sat beside him on an old tire. For a while, they worked in silence. It was that kind of quiet that didn't need filling. Eli liked that. With his father, quiet didn't feel awkward — it felt full.
Joseph broke the silence. "Still thinking about the essay?"
Eli nodded. "I don't know what to say. I feel like… I'm not sure which person I'm supposed to be."
Joseph wiped his hands on a cloth and sat beside Eli.
"You don't have to be anyone yet," he said. "You're still learning. Still growing."
"But Mom says people will only respect me if I control what they see. She says you should never let people see your weakness."
Joseph sighed and leaned back. "Your mother's been hurt. Life taught her some hard lessons. She's trying to protect you the best way she knows how."
Eli looked down. "And what about your way?"
"I'm trying to teach you how to face the world with your chest out and head high," Joseph said. "To be strong on the inside, not just on the outside."
Eli nodded, but his chest still felt heavy.
Later that afternoon, while his parents argued over something small — probably about the gas finishing too quickly — Eli went to his room and stood in front of the mirror.
He looked at himself. Just a boy. Brown skin, short hair, eyes too big for his small face. But inside, he felt older than ten. Like he'd lived more lives than he could understand.
He tried smiling like his mother taught him — soft and polite. Then he dropped it and tried to frown like his father when he was disappointed. Both faces felt like masks.
"What do I really look like?" he whispered.
He didn't know the answer.
That evening, after dinner, Eli went out alone. The sun was setting, and the streets were painted orange and gold. He walked to the park near their house and sat on a bench under the mango tree. A few kids were playing football in the distance. He didn't join them. He just watched.
An older man sat down beside him, a neighbor he knew by face but not by name. The man had a worn-out cap and eyes that looked tired but kind.
"You're Joseph's boy, right?" he asked.
Eli nodded. "Yes, sir."
"You look like him. But I see your mother in you too. She walks like she owns the road. You've got that walk."
Eli chuckled quietly. "They're very different."
"That's a good thing," the man said. "It means you get to choose who you want to become."
Eli looked at him. "How do I choose?"
The man smiled. "You start by listening. Not to them. To yourself."
They sat in silence for a while before the man stood and walked off. Eli watched him go, thinking hard about what he said.
That night, Eli wrote something new in his notebook. Not for school, but for himself.
> "Maybe I don't have to pick one side. Maybe both of them are right and wrong in different ways. Maybe being good is learning how to be both strong and kind. To smile when it helps, but cry when you need to. To know when to fight and when to forgive. I think... maybe being good means knowing which part of you to use, and when."
He closed the notebook and smiled, not the kind his mother taught him — not the perfect one. This smile was small, crooked, and real.
For the first time, it felt like his.