Page 5 of The Pakhan's Sold Bride

After my mother passed, after a two-year battle with leukemia and endless medical bills that were only partially covered by her insurance, my father made thousands of promises to help me get the debts sorted—but instead, he ended up stealing the money that paid out from her life insurance and blowing it on his stupid gambling addiction.

It’s been two years since I lost her.

And instead of the debts going down, they only seem to be getting worse. Six months ago, my father somehow managed to get access to my savings account, and all the money I was planning to put toward the doctors’ bills—he stole it.

I lift another bill and place it on the ‘unpaid’ pile.

I’m fighting tears of frustration by the time I’ve gone through all of the statements and invoices for this month.

Working three jobs and some odd jobs here and there, I’m not making anywhere near enough to ever be rid of this debt. It’s astronomical. It’s way too much for one person to deal with.

The debt collectors are hounding me daily, and my stress levels are through the roof.

“Lara, did you finish up that section I sent you this morning?” Tammy asks, sticking her head around the wall of my small cubicle. I quickly place a file over the pile of bills I wassorting on my lunch break. I don’t want my boss to think I’m using company time for personal things. I need this job.

“I did. I sent it to your e-mail about thirty minutes ago.”

“Oh, thanks, sorry. I was out for lunch, I haven’t actually checked yet,” she smiles, tilting her head to the side.

“No worries. Don’t forget to send me the new batch of data. I can get started on it this evening.”

“I’ll send it in a few minutes when I’m back at my desk.”

She disappears, her high heels clicking loudly on the wooden office floors. This is my afternoon job: a data analyst for a massive import and export corporation in San Francisco. In the mornings, I do filing and basic accounting for a legal firm. And then most evenings I do translations on technical documents—I’m grateful my mom had a passion for languages, which I inherited from her—and on the weekends I take pretty much any odd job I can get my hands on. That could mean anything from dog walking to helping old ladies with their shopping or babysitting for the wealthier side of the city.

But even with all of that, I’m still struggling to pay off my mother’s bills, and the debts my father keeps adding to them.

I hardly speak to him anymore. He’s made far too many promises—all broken and useless. He’s never helped me financially. Not even once. I’m tired of holding on to any hope that he ever will.

Glancing at my watch, I see it’s already getting late. I’ll pack up soon and start heading home.

Grabbing my sorted piles of bills, I shove them all into a folder and shove that into my purse.

I live in a small, slightly damp apartment near the docks. It’s not the nicest area, but I had to get away from my fatherand his toxic habits. He won’t even get a proper job. I have no idea what he does for money, but every cent he gets, he wastes on gambling. I had to put distance between us because I couldn’t deal with his lies anymore.

The afternoon sun is warm on my skin when I step out of the building. I tilt my face upwards and close my eyes for a moment to enjoy it. I love the warm weather; sunshine gives me energy and makes me happy. I love winter, too—it’s cozy and the rain always soothes my thoughts.

Turning left outside the building, I head towards the bus stop, hoping I won’t have to wait too long for one to arrive.

There was some kind of protest yesterday, and all of the buses got delayed. I got home so late I didn’t have time to do any extra work.

My phone vibrates in the front pocket of my purse, and I lift it out to see who’s calling. It might be another job opportunity.

Except the name on my screen makes my stomach knot.

Anton.

My father.

He lost the privilege of being calledDada while ago.

I clench my jaw, trying to figure out if I’m in the mood for a conversation with this idiot today. Finally, I give in and answer, knowing I can hang up anytime.

“What do you want, Anton?” I say coldly.

“Hi, sweetheart. How are you? I told you to call me Dad,” he says.

“I don’t have any money for you,” I sigh, knowing that is the most common reason he calls.

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