His Terms, My Surrender

ar as I read the note. W

but he just shook his head

u think se

Sofia. But I think we should be careful, w

ered our small apartment, and I helped my father to

lie down," I said t

l, cramped space was dimly lit, with a single flickering light bulb casting sha

reaking and groaning beneath the sink. I glanced around the bathroom, taking in the familiar sights of poverty, the cracked mirror, the rusty toilet handle, and th

e handwriting on the note. It looked familiar, but I c

to clean the blood from my father's face. He winced in pain as I touche

nts dwindling over the months as we struggled to make ends meet. I cleaned his cuts with a diluted solution of water and soap, using a frayed cloth that had seen

so familiar? I racked my brain, trying to remember if I had seen it in a letter, a card

self from the thoughts swirling in my head. My father nodded,

sked, "Sofia, how did everything

knew I had to be honest. "He wants me to be his....

mean?" he asked

ith him for a yea

looked like he was going to pass o

papa. I have

he'll stop at nothing to get what he wants. I met him years ago when things were still somewhat normal, but after you

t involved wit

gressive as my situation worsened. He saw my vulnerability an

not worry about me right now. Lo

let you put yourself in dan

n't protect m

ther on her dying bed, I'll keep you safe, an

ailed. "You hav

er, Sofia. I should have b

rongest man I know. And I'll be fine,

knew that he didn't believe me. He did not think I was cap

his hand. "Now, you need to get some sleep and put all the wor

es closing in exhaustion. "Okay, Sofia. But promise

promise, papa. I'll be careful, and I'll b

blanket. I sat beside him for a moment, watching him sleep. I co

h we did not have much, we were comfortable. Our small childhood home was a cozy, cramped

le where we'd eat our meals together, and a big, old stove where my mother would cook up delicious meals on a tight budget. I remembered the smell of simmering soup, the sound of sizzling m

rief, and he started making reckless decisions. He got himself involved with

work started to suffer. He would often come home late, or not come home at all. He lost most of his jobs, one by one, and made poor

I remembered the day he came home, his eyes sunken, his face gaunt, and he told me he had lost everything. He had gambled away our savings, our home, and our future. I was 16 at that time and I felt my world was crashing down around me. I knew I had to b

s we had to accept hand-me-down clothes and furniture from our neighbors. I remembered the f

provide for us. And my father, despite his flaws, despite his mistakes, never gav

hat I had to save my father, no matter what it took. I would do what

gently touched a strand of his hair, leaned forward, and ki

ther's peaceful form, and took in the familiar sights of our small, cramped living room. The worn, faded

ath me, and the hard, wooden floorboards pressing into my back. The room was dimly lit, with only a single flickering light bulb casting

f comfort and familiarity in this room, where I had spent c

elids grew heavy, weighed down by t

a deep breath, feeling my shoulders sag and my muscles relax. My gaze drifted from

my body felt too drained to follow. I snuggled deeper i

of relaxation, and before I knew it, my eyes fl