Bound By Debt

The Weight of Debt

I hate mornings. Not because I'm lazy or anything, but because mornings in my house feel like walking into a battlefield. My mother and I—we're always at war. Most days, I wake up knowing she's going to find a reason to hate me just a little more than she did the day before.

This morning, it's the sound of her voice slicing through the thin walls that jerks me awake.

"Amina! You think I'm made of money?" she screams. "The gas bill ain't gonna pay itself!"

I groan and roll over, pulling my blanket over my head. Maybe if I pretend to be asleep, she'll get tired and leave me alone. But of course, that would be too easy. A few seconds later, she's in my room, standing over me like some demon summoned to ruin my life.

"I know you hear me, girl. Get your lazy behind outta that bed!"

I open my eyes and glare at her. "I have school, Ma. What do you want me to do about the gas bill right now?"

She narrows her eyes, her face twisting into that familiar expression of disgust. "Don't get smart with me. You think you're grown now just 'cause you got a little job? You still live under my roof, Amina."

Her roof. Her rules. Her debts.

I sit up slowly, my body stiff from a restless night. "I'll figure it out," I mumble. It's always my job to figure it out.

"That's what I thought." She spins on her heel and marches out of my room, leaving the door wide open.

I want to scream. Or cry. Or both. But instead, I get up, throw on my clothes, and head to the kitchen. It's always the same routine: toast if we have bread, cereal if we don't. This morning, it's dry cereal because, of course, there's no milk.

As I sit at the table, my mom is pacing back and forth, muttering to herself. She's clutching a stack of bills, all stamped with red letters that scream "PAST DUE." I've seen those envelopes so many times they almost don't bother me anymore. Almost.

"Ma, how much is it this time?" I ask, even though I'm not sure I want to know the answer.

She slams the bills down on the counter and glares at me. "Five thousand. You got that lying around somewhere?"

I shake my head, trying to keep my face neutral. I've learned not to react too much—it only makes things worse. "No, Ma. I don't."

"Well, you better start working some overtime or something, because these people aren't playing. They came by again last night. I told them you'd have their money soon."

I freeze. "You told them what?"

"I told them you'd pay," she says like it's the most natural thing in the world.

"Ma, are you serious? You can't just—"

"I don't want to hear it, Amina!" she snaps, cutting me off. "You think I wanted this life? You think I wanted to be stuck with a kid and no help from nobody? I did what I had to do, and now you're gonna do what you gotta do. End of story."

I can feel the lump rising in my throat, but I force it back down. Crying won't help. It never does.

The walk to school is the only peace I get. It's a 20-minute trek through cracked sidewalks and graffiti-covered walls, but it's quiet, and that's all I care about. I put in my earbuds and let the music drown out my thoughts.

By the time I get to school, I've shoved everything back down where it belongs. I'm good at pretending. To my friends, I'm just Amina—smart, sarcastic, and always ready with a comeback. They don't know about the bills, the loan sharks, or the nights I spend lying awake wondering how much longer I can keep this up.

After my last class, I head to my job at the local grocery store. It's not glamorous, but it's honest work, and it helps me scrape together enough money to keep my mom's creditors from kicking down our door. Today, though, I'm distracted.

All I can think about is the way my mom said "these people aren't playing." That wasn't just a throwaway comment. She meant it.

And she was right.

When I get home that night, there's a black car parked in front of our house. I don't recognize it, but I know what it means. My stomach drops.

The front door is slightly ajar, and I hear voices inside. I step in quietly, my heart pounding so hard I can barely hear anything else.

"You've had plenty of chances, Ms. Johnson," a man says, his voice calm but cold. "This is your last warning."

"I told you, my daughter's working on it!" my mom snaps. "She'll have the money soon!"

The man laughs, but there's no humor in it. "Your daughter, huh? We'll see about that."

I step into the living room, my fists clenched at my sides. "She doesn't have it," I say before I can stop myself.

The man turns to me, his eyes narrowing. He's tall, with a shaved head and a suit that looks too expensive for someone who makes house calls like this. He studies me for a moment, then smiles.

"And you are?"

"Amina," I say, forcing my voice to stay steady. "I'm the one who's been paying your money."

"Ah, so you're the hardworking one." His smile widens, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "You've been doing a good job, Amina. But it's not enough. We need the full amount. Soon."

"How soon?" I ask, even though I already know the answer.

"Two weeks," he says.

Two weeks. Five thousand dollars. I can't even wrap my head around that number.

"I'll figure it out," I say, because what else can I say?

The man nods, satisfied. "Good. I'd hate for anything to happen to you or your mother."

Later that night, I sit on my bed, staring at the wall. My mom's in the living room watching TV like nothing happened. Like she didn't just put a giant target on my back.

I want to scream at her. I want to ask her why she's like this—why she hates me so much. But I already know the answer. She doesn't hate me. She hates her life, and I'm just the easiest thing to blame.

Still, knowing that doesn't make it hurt any less.

I pull out my notebook and start doing the math. If I work every shift I can get, maybe pick up a second job, I might be able to scrape together enough to buy us some time. But even as I write it all out, I know it's impossible.

Five thousand dollars in two weeks.

It's a number that feels too big, too heavy. Like the weight of it might crush me.

I close the notebook and lie back on my bed, staring at the ceiling. For the first time in a long time, I let the tears come.

Because no matter how hard I try, I can't see a way out of this.

And for the first time, I wonder if I even want to.