The leftover bread felt heavier than it should as I carried it through the damp alley. The rain earlier had turned the road into a mirror of streetlights and puddles. It wasn’t too late, but the air was thick, humid, and smelled faintly of wet soil.
I wanted to try selling a bit more.
If I could get one or two more sales, maybe we could buy vegetables tomorrow.
The alley was quiet. From some houses I heard TV sounds, footsteps, a baby crying. A stray cat slipped between trash cans. I walked past rusty gates, dripping laundry, and the fading buzz of evening.
As I reached the old abandoned house — the one everyone knew but no one dared to live in — I heard noises inside.
Cards slapping.
Men laughing.
Glass clinking.
The half-open door let out a weak yellow light.
I stopped.
Inside, four men were sitting around a mat. Cigarette smoke floated like ghosts in the room.
And among them—
Father.
I thought he was working far away. I thought he was trying. But there he was, eyes red, hair messy, a bottle beside him.
I stepped closer, heart pounding.
“Dad…?” I called softly.
He turned.
His look wasn’t warm — not the look of someone missed.
It was heavy. Irritated.
“Chiko? What are you doing here?” His voice was sharp.
I gripped the plastic bag of bread.
“Mom is waiting. Bimo and Sari already slept. We need money for rice tomorrow. I—”
He stood up, staggering a little.
“I don't need a lecture from a kid!”
“I just wanted—”
SLAP.
The sound cracked through the room.
My cheek burned instantly, vision blurring for a moment.
The bread fell from my hand, pieces rolling on the dirty floor.
The other men fell silent.
No laughter now — only awkward eyes and smoke lingering.
“Dad…” I whispered, throat tight. “Please come home. Mom’s tired. I’m helping sell bread so—”
He grabbed my shirt collar.
“You think you can dictate me? Go home! Don’t meddle in my life!”
He shoved me hard.
I fell to the doorstep, knees scraping the ground.
He turned away and slammed the door.
Laughter returned inside — louder than before, like a cruel echo.
I gathered the bread silently. Some pieces were wet and dusty, but I put them back in the torn plastic bag.
Food is food.
We can’t waste it.
I walked away with a stinging cheek… and a heart that hurt more than the slap.
---
At the end of the alley, three teenagers leaned on motorcycles. Cigarette smoke mixed with gasoline. Their phone speaker blasted music like they owned the night.
I lowered my head, hoping to pass unnoticed.
Too late.
“Hey, the bread boy!” one of them pointed.
Another stepped forward. “Share some bread, kid. Just one.”
I held the bag tighter. “These are for my brother and sister.”
They exchanged looks — amused.
“So stingy.”
He grabbed for the bag. I held on.
For a few seconds we struggled,
but he was older, stronger.
RIP.
The bag tore open.
Bread scattered onto the wet road.
They laughed.
One kicked a piece into the gutter.
The water swallowed it whole.
“Go home, kid,” one said, pushing my shoulder lightly — not enough to hurt, but enough to humiliate.
Their motorcycles roared off, leaving smoke, noise, and pieces of my dinner on the ground.
I crouched and picked up what was left.
One bread.
Two.
Three small pieces.
That was all I had for tonight.
I wanted to cry, but I swallowed it. Crying in the street only brings more trouble.
---
When I reached home, the house was dark.
Mom was asleep beside Bimo and Sari.
They looked peaceful — unaware that tonight had broken something inside me.
I sat alone in the tiny kitchen.
Ate the cleanest piece of bread slowly.
It tasted like nothing.
I touched my cheek.
It was warm, swollen.
But my chest hurt more.
> “Dad is just tired.”
“He will come home again.”
“He still loves us. Right?”
I whispered to myself because there was no one to answer.
The rain outside softened to a drizzle.
The roof ticked like a broken clock.
I wanted tomorrow to be gentler.
Just a little.
I lay beside my brother and sister, listening to their breathing.
The night felt longer than usual —
like a tunnel with no lamp at the end.
Still…
I closed my eyes, holding the small hope left in me.
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