Staring at my frail, pale son lying weakly in the hospital bed, my lips trembled. I bit down hard, but the tears still came, hot and uncontrollable.
During those three long years, her father pretended to be ill and I broke my back, working day and night, saving every cent just to give my son a birthday he could remember.
I wanted to take him to King's Fried Chicken, maybe even let him ride the carousel at the amusement park, just once.
But each time, like clockwork, the money vanished from my card, withdrawn by Amara.
She would apologize with red eyes, whispering that her father’s treatment couldn’t wait, begging me and our son to understand.
Even after he faked his death, for two more years, we were drowning in debt, barely able to scrape together rent.
Yet, through it all, my little boy never once complained.
He held his hunger like a badge of courage and would smile through the ache, saying, “Dad, didn’t you say the greatest happiness is when a family helps one another?”
“Grandpa and Mom need our help. I won’t eat King's Fried Chicken anymore.”
The King's Fried Chicken he hadn’t touched in five years.
The amusement park he never stepped foot in.