I moved slowly through the basement, my eyes scanning every corner, every shadow, every place where the past seemed to cling to the walls. The air was thick with dust and old memories, pressing against my chest as if the room itself was watching me. Then I saw it.
A large box rested against the far wall, half hidden beneath torn sacks and broken pieces of furniture that had long lost their purpose. The moment my eyes landed on it, my heart began to pound violently, each beat echoing in my ears. I set the lantern down beside me and knelt, my fingers brushing against the dusty lid as if touching it might make it disappear.
When I opened the box, the world stopped.
Stacks of money filled it, bundled tightly and layered one on top of another. For a moment, I could not breathe. My chest tightened and my vision blurred as tears welled up and spilled over. The truth hit me all at once, heavy and unforgiving.
This was it.
Years of suffering. Years of fear. Years of endless quotas.
Every single day, for the last seven years, my sister and I had been forced to bring money home. A thousand dollars daily. Blood money earned through exhaustion, humiliation, and pain. Money taken under threats and violence. Money we were told was necessary to keep the house standing, to keep the family alive.
And here it was, sitting silently in front of me.
A broken laugh escaped my lips, soft and hollow, even as tears streamed down my face.
"At least our labor was not in vain," I whispered to myself. "Even if it was cut short."
I closed the box and lifted it, my arms aching under its weight. Yet the weight in my heart was far heavier. Each step back upstairs felt slow and deliberate, as if I was carrying not just money, but years of suffering with me. When I entered the living room, my mother looked up and froze.
"What is that?" she asked, her voice trembling.
I placed the box on the floor and opened it.
She gasped sharply, one hand flying to her mouth. Cecilia collapsed onto the couch, staring at the contents in stunned disbelief.
None of us spoke for a long time. We simply sat there, counting, sorting, adding. The numbers kept growing, each total more horrifying than the last.
After hours of calculation, the truth became impossible to deny.
For the past seven years, my sister and I had given our father a daily quota of one thousand dollars. Altogether, it amounted to over two million five hundred and twenty thousand dollars.
And yet, more than seventy percent of it was gone.
Only seven hundred and fifty six thousand dollars remained.
My mother's face twisted with rage and grief. She cursed James bitterly, calling him useless, pathetic, and selfish. She spoke of the women, the drinks, and the gambling. Of how he had wasted blood soaked money on his own pleasures while tearing his family apart.
Cecilia broke down, sobbing uncontrollably as she buried her face in her hands. My mother joined her, her shoulders shaking as years of buried pain finally poured out. I stepped forward and wrapped my arms around them both, holding them as tightly as I could.
"It is enough," I said softly. "It is still enough."
They looked up at me, their eyes filled with tears and disbelief.
"We can leave," I continued. "We can move away from this city. We can start over. We do not have to live like this anymore."
Slowly, they nodded. That was when my mother noticed the diesel gallon still in my hand.
"Why are you carrying diesel?" she asked.
"I planned on burning the basement and the house if I could not find anything," I replied honestly.
She stared at me for a second, then laughed. Cecilia laughed too, weak but real.
"Where do you think we would sleep after that?" my sister asked, still smiling through her tears.
I laughed with them and set the gallon down.
The house felt lighter after that, even with the remaining ashes of James outside still smoking. We were broken. Scarred. Changed forever. But for the first time, hope did not feel like a lie.
We would leave.
And whatever waited for us beyond this city, it could never be worse than what we had already survived.