Chapter 64 – The Fragile Promise

Mannie’s POV

“You can ask me for anything. It is not a burden,” he said, his voice deep and steady. His eyes lingered on me for a moment before he looked away. “You can go now.”

He waved me off, then turned and walked back to his car. The sleek black vehicle roared to life, sending up a faint cloud of dust that brushed against my face and hair as he drove off into the night.

I stood there, watching until his car lights disappeared down the road. The air felt quiet again, heavy with everything that had happened.

Then, I suddenly laughed — not because anything was funny, but because my chest was too tight to cry. “At least,” I murmured to myself, “I should be happy he didn’t enter to see the kids.”

The laughter faded quickly, leaving behind a strange ache in my heart. I took a deep breath and pushed open the creaky gate.

Inside, the warm glow of our little home greeted me. It wasn’t much, just a small living room with worn-out furniture and the faint smell of cooking oil mixed with soap — but it was home. The moment I stepped in, a chorus of tiny voices rang out.

“Mom!”

Before I could even take another step, little feet came rushing toward me. Lily was the first to reach me, wrapping her arms tightly around my legs. Her hair smelled faintly of coconut oil, and her small fingers trembled as if she still hadn’t gotten over the fear.

Behind her were the others — Adam, Tera, Nate, and the rest — their faces bright but tired. My mother stood near the corner, wiping her eyes, though she quickly straightened when she saw me.

I knelt down and hugged Lily tightly, pressing my cheek against her soft hair. “You’re safe,” I whispered, my voice breaking. “You’re really safe.”

The tension I’d been holding in all day slipped out in that moment. My hands shook, my throat burned, and my eyes stung, but I held her tighter.

When I finally stood, I turned to my mother. “Mom,” I said, trying to keep my tone steady, “how did Lily go missing?”

Her eyes darted away. “Ask Nate.”

I turned sharply. “Nate,” I called, my voice firm. The boy looked down at his feet, his fingers twisting the hem of his shirt.

“Mom…” His voice trembled as he stepped forward.

“Talk to me,” I said, crossing my arms. “What happened?”

He hesitated, then began speaking in a rush — about how he had taken Lily and a few others to a nearby bar to sing, about how they wanted to earn some money, about how everything had gone wrong when a stranger lured Lily away.

By the time he finished, my knees felt weak. My hands trembled, not from anger alone but from helplessness.

“So,” I said slowly, my tone rising as my chest tightened, “because you believe you can sing, and because I allowed you to sing once at Kayla’s bar, you thought you could go to any bar on your own?”

Nate’s lips quivered. He shook his head, tears forming in his eyes.

“You didn’t even bother telling any adult at home,” I continued, my voice shaking with frustration. “Not your grandma, not even me! Just because you think you’re mature?” I pressed a hand against my forehead, trying to calm the storm raging inside. “Do you even know how I felt when I got that call? When I was told Lily went missing? It was like the whole world was collapsing around me.”

My voice cracked at the end. The room went quiet except for the faint ticking of the old wall clock.

“When you do things,” I continued softly, “do you ever think of how we feel? Do you ever stop to consider what might happen because of your choices?”

For a moment, no one spoke. Then, Lily tugged gently at my skirt. Her eyes were red, her voice small. “Mom… we didn’t mean to. We just wanted to earn some money to buy gold for Grandma.”

Her words hit me harder than any argument could.

Adam, standing beside her, added quickly, “We heard Grandma scold you that you couldn’t give her anything nice for her birthday. We wanted to help, Mom. We thought… if we could buy her gold jewelry, you’d both be happy.”

My anger melted in an instant, replaced by guilt. My lips parted, but no words came. I just looked at them, my chest tightening painfully.

“You…” I whispered, then stopped myself. I couldn’t scold them anymore. Their hearts were pure, even if their actions were reckless.

I turned to my mother. She had been silent all along, but now I noticed tears streaming down her cheeks.

“Mom,” I said sharply, the anger returning, “if you hadn’t always said those things, if you hadn’t always compared me to Zarah, would they have done this?”

She froze, her shoulders trembling.

“Every time you remind them that I’m not good enough, that I can’t give you what others can, you’re not only hurting me, you’re hurting them too,” I said, my voice shaking. “Look at what your words caused today.”

Her mouth opened slightly, but no sound came out. She only covered her face and sobbed quietly.

I sighed and turned back to the children. “Tomorrow,” I said firmly, “we will go to that bar and have you resign.”

“But, Mom—” Tera began, her small voice trembling.

I gave her a look, and she immediately went quiet.

“I know what you want to say,” I continued, my tone softer now. “But leave the job of taking care of everyone to me. That’s my responsibility, not yours. When you’re grown, you can do whatever you want. For now, just listen, alright?”

Their heads dropped in unison, and they nodded quietly.

The air in the room felt heavy, filled with guilt and lingering fear. I turned away before the tears could rise again.

I needed something....anything, to keep my hands busy. “I’ll make dinner,” I muttered and headed into the small kitchen.

The space was cramped. I opened the cupboard and found only half a pack of spaghetti and some tea ingredients.

“I forgot I was supposed to shop today,” I said under my breath, shaking my head. Still, I couldn’t let the children go to bed hungry. I boiled some water and threw in the spaghetti, adding a bit of salt and oil.

The soft hiss of boiling water filled the kitchen. It was oddly comforting.

By the time I was done cooking, it was already late. The faint hum of crickets outside told me how long the day had been. I served the food and called everyone to eat. The children dug in quietly. Even Grandma came out from her room, wiping her face with the corner of her clothing.

I didn’t say much. I couldn’t. My voice would break if I tried.

After dinner, I helped bathe the kids, brushed their hair, and tucked them into bed. One by one, their breathing slowed, and their small hands relaxed. Watching them sleep always gave me a strange peace — like for that moment, the world couldn’t hurt us.

When the house finally went quiet, I slipped into the bathroom. The small mirror above the cracked sink reflected a tired woman — red eyes, messy hair, and an expression that looked older than her age.

I turned on the tap and splashed cold water on my face. The first few drops mixed with tears I hadn’t realized were falling. My chest tightened until it broke.

I covered my mouth to muffle the sob that escaped. The sound of running water drowned out my crying as I sank to the floor.

All the fear, anger, and guilt I’d been holding back poured out of me.

By the time I came out, my eyes were swollen, and my heart felt lighter, even if just a little.

I slipped into bed and stared at the ceiling. The small fan hummed softly above, its slow rotation casting shadows that danced on the wall.

Sleep came slowly.

The next morning came too fast. My body felt heavy, but I forced myself to get up.

The children were already stirring. I smiled faintly and began waking them one by one. “Get up, sleepyheads,” I said, trying to sound cheerful.

We got ready and left the house together after breakfast. It was Sunday, so the streets were quieter, the morning air cool against our faces.

When we reached the main road, I hailed a cab. “You’ll show me the way,” I told the kids as we climbed in.

They nodded, excitement and nervousness mixed on their faces.

The bar wasn’t far, but the ride felt long. My stomach twisted the closer we got.

When we arrived, a young waiter was standing outside, as if he’d been expecting us. He smiled politely. “The boss asked me to wait for you.”

“Why?” I asked, surprised.

“The boss figured you might come today,” he said. “She’s inside.”

I exchanged a confused glance with my mother, then followed him in.

The bar was quiet this early — the faint smell of alcohol mixed with the sweet scent of perfume and polished wood. Near the far end of the room stood a woman with blonde hair tied in a bun. She was studying a painting on the wall when she turned and noticed us.

“Hello,” she said warmly, smiling. “Are you the mother of the children?”

“Yes,” I replied, nodding politely. “And I suppose you’re the boss?”

The kids chorused their greetings, their voices shy but respectful.

The woman’s smile grew. “Yes. You have good eyes,” she said, walking over to a seat and gesturing toward the sofa opposite.

I led everyone to sit down, including my mother. “Thank you.”

“I actually came to have the kids resign,” I said quickly, my hands folded in my lap. “I’m still scared after what happened yesterday.”

“I understand,” she said softly, sitting down with poise. “I didn’t expect something like that to happen here either. But your children, especially Adam — are talented. His voice is… heavenly.”

A small, proud smile tugged at my lips despite everything. “Thank you.”

“I already anticipated you might come,” she continued. “So I’ve prepared their wages in advance. It’s generous. They earned it.”

She handed out a few envelopes to the kids.

“I—” I started to protest, but she stopped me with a kind wave.

“Don’t worry about it. The children deserve it,” she said. “You’ve raised wonderful, beautiful kids.”

Her words touched me deeper than I expected. It had been so long since anyone said something kind about my children — about me. My heart warmed, and I smiled fully.

“Thank you,” I whispered.

Adam, clutching his envelope, turned to Grandma. “Grandma, she said we’re wonderful! And since Mom birthed us, and you birthed her, it means you’re even more capable! I’ll buy you gold earrings with this!”

Everyone laughed — even the boss lady. The sound filled the bar like sunlight breaking through clouds.

“Adam,” she said, still laughing, “you’re going to be a star one day.”

I looked at my children, their bright faces glowing with happiness, and my chest ached in the best way.

When we finally left the bar, the sun was warm against our skin. My mother walked quietly beside me, her face thoughtful.

Then, out of nowhere, she stopped and turned to me. Her voice was quiet, almost trembling. “I’ll never compare you with Zarah again.”

I stopped too. For a long moment, I just looked at her — the woman who had raised me, who had broken me, who now stood here trying to make it right.

I smiled, small and tired but real. “Alright,” I said softly.

I didn’t know if I believed her yet. But at least, she’d learned something today.

And for now, that was enough.?