Kneel for her

My father slapped me in front of thirty rich strangers, and the worst part was that I had walked into his house on my own two feet to beg him for help. It was a Saturday in October in Naperville, Illinois. I stood at my father's front door, holding my mother's trembling hand. Every few steps, she coughed into her sleeve and tried to hide it from me. "Aanya, please," Mom whispered. "We can go home." "We don't have a home, Mom. Rent is due Monday, and the hospital wants four thousand dollars by Friday." "We have each other." "That won't pay for your treatment." Maria Rossi fell silent. She never argued when I was right. She simply looked away, and somehow, that hurt more. I had tried everything—the free clinic, church assistance, payday loans. Nothing worked. My father was our last chance, even though I hadn't spoken to him in four years. A maid opened the door, glanced at my worn jeans, and pointed toward the side entrance. "Staff entrance is around the back." "I'm not staff," I said. "I'm family." I walked past her. The backyard was crowded with wealthy guests attending the Hale family's charity brunch for a children's hospital. Women in silk dresses sipped champagne while waiters carried trays of expensive food. I almost laughed. They were raising money for sick children while my sick mother stood outside in a coat too thin for October. Then I saw him. Richard Rossi. My father. He wore a cream linen suit and laughed beside a group of wealthy guests. Four years ago, when I was sixteen, he'd packed a suitcase and told us he needed "space." Two months later, we discovered the truth. His new life had a name: Catherine Hale. Money. A mansion with six bathrooms. I walked straight toward him. "Dad." His smile vanished. He glanced nervously at the guests before grabbing my elbow and pulling me toward a hedge. "Aanya! What are you doing here?" "Mom is sick. She needs treatment. We need four thousand dollars. I wouldn't ask if I had another choice." "You can't just show up here!" He looked over his shoulder. "Catherine controls the accounts. If she sees you—" He lowered his voice. "Give me until Monday. I'll find a way." For one foolish second, I believed him. "You had fifteen years with Mom," I whispered. "You made her soup when she was sick. How could you forget her so easily?" His expression changed. Fear flashed across his face as he noticed a blonde woman watching us from the terrace. Then he slapped me. The crack echoed across the lawn. Silence swallowed the party. I stood frozen, my cheek burning and blood filling my mouth where my teeth had cut my lip. He hadn't hit me because he hated me. He'd hit me because he feared her. And cowards always found someone smaller to hurt. "Don't ever speak to me like that in front of my guests!" he shouted. "I don't know you." The blonde woman approached, her pearl earrings catching the light. Catherine Hale-Rossi. She studied my cheap shoes and messy braid before curling her lips into a smile. "So, this is the daughter." Her gaze traveled over me. "Why beg for charity, sweetheart? With a figure like yours, you could make good money standing on a street corner." Several women gasped. Others giggled. Behind me, Mom whispered, "Aanya, no." But it was too late. I stepped forward and slapped Catherine across the face. Her champagne glass slipped from her hand and shattered against the stone. For one second, nobody moved. "You little—!" she screamed, clutching her cheek. "Say it again," I replied. "Go on. Say it again." "Richard! Help me! She hit me!" My father stared at me like I was a stranger. Maybe I was. "I'm not going to sell myself for a mansion with six bathrooms," I told Catherine. "And I'm certainly not a f*****g b***h who steals another woman's husband and calls it love." A fork clattered to the ground. Phones appeared in raised hands. Thirty wealthy strangers watched me become the day's entertainment. I took my mother's trembling hand. "Come on, Mom. We're leaving." We turned toward the gate, but Catherine's voice stopped us. "Wait." She approached, one hand pressed to her reddened cheek. "You think you can humiliate me and walk away? I always repay what I'm owed." Then she turned to Mom, her voice dripping with false sweetness. "And you, you sick, useless woman. Take your daughter home and teach her to find customers. It's the only job someone like her is good for." Mom said nothing. That hurt more than the slap. She had worked night shifts for twenty years, raising me through exhaustion and sacrifice. Yet she stood there, accepting insults from the woman who had stolen her husband. "Aanya," she whispered, squeezing my hand. "Please. Let's leave with our heads held high." So I did. I walked her past the parked Mercedes and rows of white roses, refusing to look back. We were almost at the gate when footsteps pounded against the gravel. "Maria! Wait!" My father came running without his jacket, his face flushed and a white envelope crushed in his fist. He pushed it into Mom's hand. "Four hundred dollars. It's all the cash I have. Please, don't tell Catherine. I'm sorry." "Take it back," I snapped. "Aanya—" "I don't want it!" Mom gently closed her fingers around the envelope. "We'll keep it, Richard. For the medicine." He nodded, wiping his mouth with a shaking hand. Then someone called his name from the terrace. He turned and ran back without looking at either of us. Mom slipped the envelope into her coat. "Don't hate him," she murmured. "He's only a small man in a big suit." "I hate him a little." "A little is allowed." We stepped through the gate into the cold. I opened my mouth to apologize, promising I'd find another way to pay for her treatment. Then Mom coughed. The sound tore through the silence. She doubled over, gripping a lamppost. When she pulled her hand away from her mouth, her fingers were covered in blood. "Mom?" "I'm fine," she whispered. "It's just a little—" Her knees buckled. I caught her before she hit the pavement, but blood splashed across the white curb outside my father's mansion. "Mom! Look at me! Please!" She didn't answer. I screamed for help. I screamed at the closed gate. I screamed toward the terrace, where thirty wealthy guests stood watching us over their champagne glasses. Nobody moved. Then Catherine's voice drifted down from above, cool and indifferent. "Somebody called her a cab. I'm not having that on my lawn.”