Sacrifice Of Love

Chapter One Pamela’s POV A Taste of Hardship Fresh bread aroma seeped through the little kitchen, entwined with the salt of air seeping through the window opened just enough for it. Comfort was something I held on to, a flash of better times; the smell couldn't mask the harshness of our reality. It was only as good as the ingredients I had to hand, and today's was a bare-bones creation: a half cup of flour, a pinch of salt, and a dollop of hope. "Good morning, Grandpa," I called, poking my head into the darkened living room where he sat in his worn armchair, a quilt draped over his knees. "Good morrow, Pamela," he returned gruffly low with age and with fatigue. He looked up, a smile starting on his face though he could not feel it rise as far as his eyes. "That bread smells marvelous. 'Tis sure to be the best we have e'er had." A weak smile was all I could manage in return. "I hope so, I used the last of the flour. We shall have to make a trip to the market soon." "Of course," Grandfather said, as if that went without saying. Of course, then we knew but one thing, to go to the market meant something other than a few coins, which in turn meant scrounging for what little was left over, and God would see them through another week. Freshly baked bread in my kitchen was scintillating, but my heart remained cold. This small apartment stood testimony to the lot of struggling along we had done there: paint had been off since ages, furniture ill-matched and second-hand. We used to live better, but those days seemed like a dream which happened with another man. I pulled a slice off the rack and spread on butter-the sweet smell wafted up as I savored the momentary sweetness. It was a luxury we rarely afforded ourselves, but today felt like a small victory. It was finally done, and I carried it in and handed a slice to Grandpa in the living room. "Here you go sir", I said laying it in his lap, "It's still warm." He took it with shaking hands and took a small, cautious bite. His eyes widened as he savoured it, "This is delicious, Pamela. You have a gift, you really do". I watched him eat, my own belly growling in hunger. It was a sensation with which I'd grown all too familiar-going without so that Grandpa might have enough. It was one of those silent sacrifices-one that I made willingly enough, but to which I didn't always take kindly. "We are soon going to be needing more than bread," I said, trying to lighten it up a bit. "I am running low on pretty much everything." Grandpa looked at me with concerned eyes. "We shall manage. We always do." I said nothing else, bit my lip, and did not want to be another cause of concern for him anymore. "I'll think of something; maybe there is a special on at the market or some charity that can help us out." The furrows around Grandpa's eyes softened. "You've done so much already; I wish there was more I could do." "You have done more than you know," I forced the smile up my lips to tell her. "Just keep your spirits high, okay?" Days oozed into days in the rhythm of apathy: cooking, cleaning, and caring for Grandpa. Usually, I was one of those who made something out of a situation. The degree of our poverty was irrepressible. Extra shifts that I could take, I would jot down at the local greasy spoon diner, scrapping together whatever tips I might bring in. Long hours of hard work, but then it was our lifeline. One evening, as I was getting ready once again for another shift of mine, the knock of the door sounded. The creaky door opens, and in comes Mrs. Caldwell-our neighbor-laden with a bunch of vegetables and a jar of home-made jam. "Pamela, dear, thought you might need this," she said in a soft voice full of concern. "It is not much, but I thought it could come in handy." Tears of gratitude welled in my eyes. "Thanks, Mrs Caldwell. This means so much more than you'll ever know." She patted my hand soft. "You're a good girl, Pamela. Your parents would be proud of how you're taking care of your grandfather." I nodded. No words were needed, actually. I clutched the basket to my chest, feeling both a mix of relief and sorrow that she was gone. It was through others' charity that we kept afloat, and it constantly reminded me of just how far we'd fallen from comfort known. I lay in bed that night, the weight of my responsibilities heavy upon my chest. I had never fully grasped what happened to my parents besides the fact that they had left me with an impossible burden. Whichever way I turned, it appeared to touch my life. I had never mourned them as I ought to. As a fact, my role had changed to that of a caretaker-a role that tired me and made me hungry for normalcy. It gets me thinking whether I would ever be relieved or whether it would just be a continuum of struggle. The night was cold, still, dead, and a friend in bitter disguise. Closing my eyes would only appear to will those fears clinging onto me like shadows away. My mind was made up to move on for the sake of Grandpa and mine. We had each other, and that alone was enough consolation. I slept, holding on to that small, frail hope that with time, somehow, things would get better. I would take each passing day from this day henceforth no different than the same knowledge that pulled me through those darkest of days: that maybe we would survive only to struggle another day down the road. Wrapping myself in the blanket in the middle of the cold night, I made silent promises with myself-to fight, no matter however dark all this seemed to get. I would find a way to get Grandpa and me out of these hardships. That hope as dim it was, became small fire in the darkness-the only thing I just wouldn't let go of .