When Ochaco's father laughed, it was beautiful. The sagging lines and the dark circles seemed only to highlight the lightened glee of his face, the carefree bliss that for a moment melted away all the bills and work orders and contracts. It was as if he were a whole new person.
When Ochaco's mother smiled, she too transformed. New life sparkled out from her eyes, and she seemed to straighten, become tall. It was a gentle smile, that suddenly made you realize what the whole face was for—it was a face meant for smiling.
Only it had so little reason to.
When mother and father came home each day, there were no smiles. Droop-eyed and sag-shouldered, they would drop into the folding chairs, on either side of the Walmart-table and work on papers and bills under the glare of the bulb hanging from the ceiling. Sometimes they ate microwaved dinners, sometimes they fixed rice and noodles. Sometimes they ate nothing at all, because Father's most recent client had refused to pay him. But no real smiles.
She tried. When they were too tired to talk, she would talk for them, telling them all about her day, her friends, her schoolwork. (She didn't bother with jokes. Jokes only created forced laughter, and that hurt almost worse). She set the table and cleared it up—that sometimes squeezed out a grateful smile from mother. And when they had the money for tea, she would fix that and give her parents each a cup. That too, sometimes gained her a grateful smile—but more usually a polite one. Only rarely would her efforts result in that gentle brightening, where for a moment, all the dragging cares and worries slipped into momentary oblivion.
Rarely.
It hurt. A part of her always wondered if it were her fault they weren't smiling. She knew that wasn't true—Ochaco loved her parents, and they loved her—but the doubt just itched at her.
Ochaco wanted nothing more than to see her parents smile. Because it was beautiful.