From Hate Flourishes Love (Editing)

Show Me A Gambler And I'll Show You My Father

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Several long minutes pass with my mother sobbing and me trying—futilely—to calm her down. Eventually, I gave up. Whatever was wrong, she was in no state to explain it.

I turn to my father instead, hoping he could shed some light on why Mom was so shaken.

I pester him with a hard, insistent stare, silently daring him to speak.

He bit his nails and scratched behind his ear—nervous habits I knew all too well. My stomach tightened as a familiar fear crept in, and I sent a quick prayer up to my lucky star that this had nothing to do with his gambling.

Before the suspicion could fully take hold, I pressed him for answers.

"Will you tell me what's wrong?" I demand.

"So today, I went to a new casino," he starts, dashing my hope out the window. 

I furrow my brows, my thoughts spiraling toward every terrible possibility. Even so, I let him continue, knowing I had to hear it—no matter how bad it was.

"I was playing blackjack,"  he continues, "I was winning at first but then the stakes kept getting higher, and I started to lose money. I was sure I'd be able to win if I had more money, so I went into your mom's and my joint savings account."

I don't like where this story is going.

He starts again, voice barely above a whisper. "I tried to win the money back, but I couldn't. So I went into the account your mom has, and I opened it for you," he pauses, then adds, "I lost everything." He drops his head, shame folding his shoulders inward.

When he finally looks up at me, I search his eyes for any sign that he's lying. I cling to the faint hope—my lucky star again—that this is some cruel prank.

My heart stutters at his confession. Not once did he think about my future before gambling away the money I had spent years saving so I could put myself through grad school. Years—gone. Blown away in a single day, like it meant nothing.

I guess I learned a brutal lesson about who should have access to your bank account. I was too young to open one on my own, so my parents' names were on it too. Five years of early mornings and aching feet at the bakery—down the drain.

Hot tears spill down my cheeks, heavy and unstoppable. This might be the worst day of my life.

My dad lifts his head again, eyes glassy and rimmed with red.

"And?" I sigh, urging him to finish.

"There was a chance I would win back the money, so I borrowed a loan from the casino," he sobs.

I sneer at him. His tears won't get back the money.

"How much did you borrow?" I hiss, bracing myself, hoping that the loan wasn't above 50k.

"Two million dollars,"  he replies.

"What" is the only word I manage to force past my lips at his answer.

I scoff.

He has to be exaggerating—adding a few extra digits out of shock. What sensible gambling institution would ever lend my father that much money? I cling to the thought that maybe he never learned about significant figures, that the two zeros at the end simply don't belong there.

"Come again?"  I raise a brow at him.

"T-t-two million dollars," he stammers.

Every emotion drains from my face. His words echo in my head, replaying over and over. It feels as if the earth has hurled me out of orbit. My world spins wildly, like I'm trapped on a Ferris wheel hurtling at a hundred miles an hour, never slowing, never touching the ground.