For my siblings and my mother—
the first people who taught me what it means
to be safe, to be loved, and to find light
even in the darkest rooms.

Credits

This book was created with the help of several digital tools and image resources.

Story Support

Gemini assisted with scene creation.

Image Credits

Microsoft Copilot created the cartoon-like Bop-It toy and flashlight.

Cover Page

The cover illustration was created using Microsoft Copilot.

Preview audio:

storyj.mp/ahirytu3qefk

This is our first real home—something we can call our own. But that means Mamá has to work two jobs and will rarely be home. I wonder if a house can feel lonely, too.

The house looked tired the day they moved in. Outside, its yellow paint was faded like a lemon that had forgotten summer. Inside, maroon‑red paint peeled from the popcorn walls in curled flakes, as if the house had been trying to speak and had lost its voice. This was their first real home—something they could call their own. But that meant Mamá had to work two jobs and was rarely home. As she looked at the lemon‑colored paint, Claudia wondered if a house could feel lonely, too.

This was the living room, with maroon colored walls...

This was the kitchen with a lonely acorn tree painted through the window...

I don't like this house...

The house doesn't like you either.

Claudia slept between Ana and Haydee by the wall, and José—the expert at bothering people—near her feet. He poked her ankle every morning, just so she’d yelp. Mamá left before sunrise for work. While she thought her children were still sleeping, she would kiss everyone goodbye. Claudia would lie awake, pretending to be asleep, so she could remember her presence throughout the day.

Mamá worked in a warehouse, where sewing machines chattered like hard rain all day. Claudia knew the sound stuck to Mamá’s fingers and followed her home, because sometimes Mamá’s hands kept moving even when she was too tired to talk.

That first night, Claudia watched as Haydee traced a chip in the maroon paint with her fingernail—the way someone might worry a loose thread—and whispered, “I don’t like this house.” Claudia was just grateful they didn’t have to sleep with other families anymore, packed together like suitcases in a room she could never call her own.

José’s foot thumped against Haydee’s leg, and he muttered, “The house doesn’t like you either.”

“Stop,” Ana said gently, though she smiled at the corner of her mouth. “Come to the living room. I found something.”

Stop. Come to the living room. I found something.

“It still works,”

Hey! It's my turn.

“The Bop‑It?” asked Claudia in excitement. José smirked. He’d already grabbed it—of course he had. They sat in a circle on the living room carpet, where dust motes floated like tiny planets in the flashlight beams. José held up the Bop‑It. He pressed it and waited to hear the music. When it started playing, he whispered, “It still works.”

When he finished his turn, Claudia tried grabbing the Bop‑It from him. “Hey!” she said, pulling. “It’s my turn.” José grinned, then let go faster than she expected.

“Relax. I was just seeing if you’d fight for it.”

Claudia blinked. Why would he test me? she wondered. She began another try at the game and held the toy steadier in her hands.

¡Ay!

I didn't do it.

Night after night, they made the house less silent. Their circle grew into a ritual: Lotería, then Uno, then a made‑up Spanglish spelling game, then the Bop‑It going around like a tiny, colorful moon. Maybe the house wasn’t scary—maybe it was just waiting for them to show it how to breathe again.

During a thunderstorm one night, the bulbs flickered. Then the house let out a small sigh—and the lights died. The popcorn walls turned into caverns.

“¡Ay!” Haydee squeaked.

“I didn’t do it,” José said quickly (which made everyone wonder if he had).

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"The Night We Made Our Own Light"

Name: The Night We Made Our Own Light
Author: Claudia Estrada

Claudia Estrada

The Night We Made Our Own Light tells the story of my upbringing, alongside my siblings, as we moved into our first real home—a small, worn‑down house with peeling paint and a quiet, lonely feel. My mom was a single mother who immigrated from Mexico, and she had to work two jobs, leaving before sunrise each day. We learned to find comfort in one another as we adjusted to a place that didn’t yet feel like home. One night, during a blackout caused by a thunderstorm, we turned our fear into play by creating games with flashlights, laughter, and an old Bop‑It toy. As we explored the dark together, we learned the house by touch and sound, slowly filling the space with our energy and love. When Mamá returned, tired from work, we welcomed her into our glowing circle. In that moment, I realized that even when life is hard, family can create its own warmth and light.

(19 pages)

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