Hot dogs

It was one of those humid nights when the damp seemed to climb the walls, visible even before sleep. My pyjamas were old and frayed the cold relentless. Yet, there was a strange calm in the air. And somehow, I often felt happy.

Except for my nightmares, they haunted me, little infernos that tore me from sleep. I would wake screaming, convinced I had lost my mother. She was everything; even her imagined absence felt like a wound. Over time, I got used to these dreams. I told myself they came from going to bed too late… or from the winter cold that gnawed at my bones.

I grew up in that rhythm—icy nights, restless dreams—until one day, my mother bought a heater. And strangely enough, that small machine changed everything.

The heater made the room almost bearable. My sister and I slept a little better. Only the bathroom remained outside, in the garden, far from warmth. But that was our life. We adapted. Everything becomes part of you when you know nothing different.

Days passed, the cold deepened, yet the heater became our refuge. One afternoon, our mum came home with hot dogs, but we had no gas, no fuel. We didn’t know how to cook them. I looked at my sister and said:

—What if we hold them near the heater? Let’s pretend we’re camping.

She smiled. We grabbed two forks and held our hot dogs over the heater. Laughter mixed with imagination, and slowly, the hot dogs cooked.

They weren’t bad. It was our first adventure of this kind—our tiny rebellion against winter. For a moment, life felt full, not just for my sister and me, but for our mum too.

She walked in and asked:

—What are you doing?

Excited, I replied:

—We’re cooking hot dogs! We’re camping!

Mom smiled, simply:

—OK.

She was always like that: relaxed, letting us dream, letting us be happy despite the cold and the hardships.

Days passed, and cooking hot dogs—and later marshmallows—filled us with joy. Those few minutes near the heater were a refuge, a pocket of warmth in a world that often felt cold. Our mother made sure we never ran out of hot dogs; I reminded her to buy them each week. Maybe they weren’t healthy, but they gave us hope, and they gave us happiness.

Every week, we looked forward to them. They were a rare luxury, a treasure. One day siser whispered:

—Ask Mum for more hot dogs.

I was the youngest; maybe she thought our Mum wouldn’t say no. But Mum was firm:

—No. Hot dogs aren’t for every day.

Still, on Sundays it became our ritual. Mum went to the market, and we waited. Later, she bought the chicken ones, “healthier,” she said. Today, I’m not so sure. But back then, they kept winter from feeling unbearable.

School was another world. My sister and I barely spoke there; she was older. But the hot dogs lingered in my mind. I couldn’t focus; I thought of our imaginary campfires, of my sister, of Mum. For me, winter days were magic, filled with laughter and warmth, despite the cold that bit through everything.

Then, one day, I fell sick. I had a high fever, burning throat. My mother and Grandma didn’t know how to help. I shivered uncontrollably, trembling. All I could think was: I don’t want to be sick. Ever again.

The house was damp. The mattress damp. Everything damp. I had a jumper that took days to dry. AlI wanted was to get better, to eat hot dogs with my sister again.

The fever persisted. Mum took me to the hospital. My sister stayed with our Grandma and the younger siblings. Pain enveloped me. A sharp injection brought some relief. I had an infection. I saw worry in Mum’s eyes—so much that I frightened even the doctors.

At the hospital, nurses waited, watching the fever. Mum sat there, still, silent, as if praying. I didn’t understand the depth of my illness; I only knew I was weak, small, fading.

Even so, I thought of my sister, of Mum, of the damp house. The doctor warned Mum: if the fever didn’t drop, I’d have to stay admitted. Mum’s hands twisted together in tension. Hot water bags warmed my feet; I shivered. An IV dripped into my arm. Nothing made sense.

I blacked out. When I woke, the doctor’s face loomed:

—Good, you’re back.

Mum was there. No telephone at home meant she couldn’t call anyone. Once discharged, the doctor told me to stay in bed. By the time we arrived home, after a day without food, hunger gnawed at me.

Mum bought hot dogs that day, A Wednesday. Because I was getting better.

My Grandma, not a very affectionate woman, smiled at my return, relieved I was alive. Slowly, I realised I didn’t have the same opportunities as my classmates. Everything was harder: staying warm, studying, even just existing in comfort.

Yet, I found joy. I inhabited my own world, making hot dogs, pretending to camp, imagining the candlelight flickering in a forest, animals rustling around us. Having my Mum beside me—that was what truly mattered.

After two weeks of recovery, school resumed. I was by now behind in every subject, I faced a literature assignment: write a free story. I wrote about the hot dogs. I read it aloud.

My classmates laughed; they didn’t understand. The teacher said I hadn’t written it myself and I felt with his words that he had failed me.

A classmate, smirked. She loved to ridicule me, but I didn’t care. I had my story. That was what mattered.

She spread the tale of my failure. I saw the delight in their eyes. I just wanted to be back in our house.

Her teasing followed me, even on the way home. But I didn’t listen. All I could think of was reaching home, my hot dogs waiting. Maybe my escape. Maybe not. But it made me happy.

I never complained. I took my story home.

When I arrived, story in hand, teacher’s note included, mymum didn’t say a word. She just said:

—Daughter, never stop writing.

She didn’t ask what happened. I tucked the paper in a book my brother had given me. Then I opened a notebook and began writing small stories.

Winter was ending. No longer reliant on the heater daily. No more hot dogs, no more adventures with my sister. I laterlearned to cook them in the pan. Even when the lights went out, nothing mattered. Nothing at all—except being with the people I love.