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The small house felt unbearably quiet that evening. The clock on the wall ticked, each second sounding like a hammer against Mrs. Sandra's chest. She sat at the old wooden dining table, her fingers trembling as they gripped the edge, eyes swollen from hours of crying. Her face was pale, lips dry, and her hair, usually neat, was now messy from her restless hands running through it over and over.
On the floor beside her, little Ginny knelt, her small hands clutching her mother's skirt. Ginny's round eyes shimmered with unshed tears, but she forced herself to be brave—she had to be strong for her mother.
"Mom… please don't cry anymore," Ginny said in her soft, gentle voice, tilting her head to look up at her mother. "I'll… I'll do my best to help. I'll find a way to pay the debt."
The words were so innocent, so full of childlike determination, that Mrs. Sandra's chest ached even more. She cupped her daughter's cheek with a trembling hand, her touch tender but heavy with sorrow.
"Oh, my sweet girl… no," Mrs. Sandra whispered, her voice hoarse from crying. "You can't. That money is… it's huge. Far too much for someone like you to pay. It's not your burden."
Ginny frowned, her tiny brows knitting together. "But I can work… I can… sell flowers in the market… or clean people's houses. I'll do anything, Mommy. Please, let me help."
Mrs. Sandra's lips quivered. She tried to smile, but it turned into another sob. "You're just a child. You should be thinking about school, about your dreams… not debts and pain."
In the corner of the room, James sat quietly, his small fists clenched in frustration. He hated feeling helpless. He hated that his mother looked like the whole world had collapsed on her shoulders. The thought of his sister—his beloved sister—being gone made his chest tighten until he could hardly breathe.
"I'm sorry, Mom," James finally said, his voice breaking. He stood and moved closer, resting his hand on her arm. "I just… I wanted to help you. I didn't know things would get this bad."
Mrs. Sandra shook her head quickly. "No, my son, it's not your fault. It's mine… all mine." Tears spilled down her cheeks again.
The sound of footsteps outside broke the tense silence. A few moments later, the door creaked open, and in stepped two of Mrs. Sandra's old acquaintances from the neighborhood. They were dressed in bright, flashy clothes, faces painted with makeup too thick for the daytime. From the moment they entered, their eyes darted around the modest home, their expressions twisted with mockery.
One of them, a tall woman with sharp cheekbones, smirked. "Well, well… if it isn't Sandra. I heard the news. Lost your precious daughter, huh?"
The other woman laughed, her voice dripping with cruelty. "Tsk, tsk… you used to walk around here like you were better than everyone. Now look at you—crying in your little shack."
Mrs. Sandra's hands curled into fists on her lap, but she didn't raise her head. Her tears fell harder, soaking into her dress.
"You're nothing but a bitch," the first woman spat. "See what's become of you? Useless. You couldn't even protect your own child."
Ginny stood abruptly, placing herself between the women and her mother. Her small frame trembled, but her voice was fierce. "Stop talking to my mom like that! You don't know anything!"
The women laughed again, unfazed. "Oh, listen to this little one. So much fire. I wonder how long before you end up like her."
Mrs. Sandra let out a cry—part anger, part despair. She wanted to scream at them to leave, to take their venomous words and never return, but her grief was too heavy. The two women, seeing no reaction beyond tears, exchanged smug glances and left, slamming the door behind them.
When they were gone, the silence that followed felt heavier than before. Mrs. Sandra collapsed into Ginny's arms, sobbing harder than she had all day. Ginny hugged her mother tightly, whispering over and over, "It's okay, Mom… it's okay…"
James stood frozen, his mind a storm of emotions. He hated those women for mocking his mother. He hated Alexander for causing all of this. And most of all, he hated himself for being powerless.
The night dragged on painfully. They ate nothing. Mrs. Sandra eventually fell asleep in her chair, exhaustion overtaking her. Ginny curled up on the floor beside her, holding her hand.
But James… James couldn't sleep.
When morning came, Mrs. Sandra tried to make breakfast, but the clinking of utensils and the smell of food only made James's stomach churn.
"I'm not hungry," he said firmly when Ginny called him to the table.
Mrs. Sandra frowned. "James, you have to eat something. You haven't had a proper meal since…" Her voice trailed off; she couldn't bring herself to say "since your sister was taken."
"I said I'm not hungry," James repeated, his tone sharper this time. He pushed away from the table and walked to his room, shutting the door.
Inside, he sat on the bed, staring at the wall. Every memory of his sister—her laughter, her voice, the way she used to ruffle his hair—played in his mind like a cruel movie. He buried his face in his hands, wishing he could turn back time.
Mrs. Sandra stood outside his door for a while, her hand raised as if to knock, but she lowered it slowly. She knew he was hurting. They all were. And no amount of words could erase that pain.
The day passed in slow motion. Ginny tried to distract James with stories and games, but he barely responded. Even the neighbors seemed quieter than usual, as though the weight of the tragedy had spread beyond their home.
By nightfall, the house was once again swallowed in silence. The air felt thick, heavy with grief and unspoken fears.
And somewhere in the distance, under the cold city lights, Alexander was laughing with Clinton over a drink—completely unaware of the broken family his actions had left behind.
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