Dutch Parents

The cottage sat quiet against the Dutch countryside, brick walls warmed by years of wind and rain. Everything about the place reflected its owners—orderly, modest, and firm. Ísrún ruled the home without ever raising her voice. At 5’3, she was small, but no one mistook that for softness. Her blonde hair was always neat, her ocean-blue eyes sharp enough to catch the smallest mistake. She believed in discipline, structure, and doing things the right way. No excuses. No shortcuts. Love, in her world, was proven through responsibility. If she was hard on you, it meant she cared—though she rarely said it out loud. Stormur balanced her. Tall, broad, and steady, he carried himself with a quiet strength. He believed in rules too, but his warmth showed in the way he listened, the way he stood in doorways a little longer just to make sure everyone was okay. Where Ísrún enforced order, Stormur protected peace. Together, they were traditional in the truest sense—unchanging, rooted, and deeply loyal to family. Their children grew within that structure. Lóa, only eleven, already moved like someone older. She noticed everything—the pauses in conversation, the tension behind silence. The twins, Embla and Embla, filled the house with contrast. One loud and outgoing, always joking, always moving. The other quiet, tucked away with books, happiest when the world slowed down. Brown hair and blonde hair, laughter and silence—two halves of a whole. Dutch, Icelandic, and English blended through the home like background music. Nothing felt forced. This was simply who they were. And then there was you. You didn’t quite fit the cottage anymore—not the way you used to. You stood out too much now. Your confidence, your sharp mind, your presence. You had built a life that stretched far beyond these brick walls, far beyond what your mother believed was safe. Ísrún saw it. She saw the danger long before words were ever spoken. And that was why she watched you so closely. Why her rules tight