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Living In Shadow Of Death 4

The night stretched long, and sleep refused to claim me. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw my aunt’s disappointed face, heard her words echoing in my mind: *“You’ve spoiled everything for me, Deborah. You’ve made me question my decision to take you in.”* The sting of those words cut deeper than anything physical. I had always feared losing her trust, but now, I had lost it. I had betrayed her.

It wasn’t just about the money anymore. It was about something deeper—the realization that in my desperation, I had lost sight of who I was. I wasn’t a thief. I wasn’t the kind of person who took from others. But that’s exactly what I had become. And it hurt more than I could put into words.

The next morning, the tension was thick in the house. The usual noises of morning routines felt distant, as if they were happening in a world that wasn’t mine. I could barely look at my aunt. Every time our eyes met, the silence between us grew heavier. She didn’t say much, but I could feel the judgment in the air, see it in the way she moved.

I went to the shop, hoping to get some work done, to distract myself from the suffocating guilt. But it wasn’t enough. Every customer felt like a reminder of my failure. Every transaction was another moment where I wasn’t enough. And still, my aunt said nothing. She simply watched me, her silence a cruel reminder of the consequences of my actions.

Later that afternoon, when I thought the tension had settled, my uncle came to me. He was always quiet, always so passive compared to my aunt’s sharpness. But when he spoke, his words were heavy.

“Deborah,” he said softly, “I heard about what happened.”

I nodded, not trusting my voice to speak. My throat was tight, constricted.

“I’m disappointed in you,” he continued, his voice barely audible. “You’re better than this. We took you in. We gave you a chance, and now…” He trailed off, shaking his head. I could see the disappointment in his eyes, but it hurt in a different way. My uncle had always been the one I believed in, the one who never looked at me with judgment, but now… I saw it there too.

I had failed both of them.

I wanted to say something—anything—to explain. But how could I? How could I explain the fear, the constant worry, the way hunger gnawed at me, the shame of seeing my siblings suffer when I couldn’t do anything to help? How could I tell him that this small act—this one desperate moment of taking that money—wasn’t about greed, but about survival?

But the words wouldn’t come. Instead, I stood there, trembling.

My uncle sighed, as if he had already made up his mind.

“You’ve crossed a line, Deborah. You need to make things right. If you want to stay here, you need to prove you can be trusted.”

I felt the weight of his words. It wasn’t just about the money anymore. I had lost their trust, and without trust, there was no foundation for anything. How could I rebuild that? How could I fix what I had broken?

After he left, I sat in the corner of the shop, my hands shaking. I knew I couldn’t undo the damage. I couldn’t change what I had done. But I also knew that I couldn’t let myself fall into despair. I had to fight for my place in this world, for my dignity, and for the love I once had in this family.

But I didn’t know where to begin.

The following days were tense. Every small action, every word I spoke, felt like it was being judged. My aunt barely looked at me, and when she did, her gaze was cold. I wasn’t sure if it was out of anger or disappointment, but either way, it hurt more than any physical punishment could.

I tried to focus on the work. I tried to put my heart into the tasks I was given. But the guilt lingered, suffocating me with every breath.

And then came the moment when I realized just how far I had fallen.

One evening, after a particularly harsh exchange between my aunt and me, I was asked to help with dinner. As I prepared the food, my younger brother Michael—always so sweet, always so innocent—came to me with a small piece of paper in his hand. He looked up at me, his big brown eyes wide with concern.

“Deborah, why are you sad?” he asked, his voice soft, barely a whisper.

I looked down at him, my heart breaking all over again. My little brother, who didn’t even fully understand the weight of what had happened, could see it on my face. He could see the sadness I was trying so hard to hide.

> “I’m just tired, Michael,” I whispered. “But I’ll be okay.”

He hugged me tightly, his tiny arms wrapping around me in the purest form of love. For a moment, everything else disappeared.

But when he pulled away, he handed me the paper. I opened it slowly. It was a drawing he had made—of the three of us, him, Joseph, and me. And in the picture, we were smiling. The sun was shining in the background, and there was a house—a home—right next to us. It was the kind of picture any child would draw, filled with hope, simplicity, and dreams of a better life.

And as I looked at that drawing, I felt a surge of resolve.

I had to fix this. Not just for me, but for them. I couldn’t let this be the end. I couldn’t let my mistakes define my future, and I couldn’t let my siblings grow up in this brokenness.

I had to earn back their trust. I had to rebuild the love we had once shared.

But I didn’t know how.