The price of Pride

Alessia's Point of view

The aroma of freshly made chicken soup filled the air as I lifted the pot from the cooker. What once brought a sigh of contentment over my culinary skills now served as a stark reminder of how far we had fallen from our days of glory.

I glanced through the glass windows of my kitchen, my heart sinking at the sight of the empty seats in the restaurant. Just then, I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned, reluctantly pulling my gaze from the view.

“Hello, Martha. How are you?” I greeted, forcing a smile. She was in her mid-forties and one of the longest-serving staff members at my restaurant.

“I’m doing fine,” she replied, her smile not quite reaching her eyes.

I placed my hand on her shoulder. “Is everything alright? Is there something I should know?” I asked, feeling my heart rate quicken. I wasn’t ready for any more bad news this week. It was the weekend, and I had already endured more than enough since the beginning of the week.

“I’m just concerned about the restaurant. Prices have gone over the roof, making it difficult to restock. Recently, I’ve noticed our menu has become limited, which is bad for business. I even overheard some regular customers complaining about delayed service due to our reduced staff. The only thing keeping them coming back is the quality we’ve upheld.” Martha analyzed.

I sighed heavily. “I understand your concerns, Martha, and I appreciate them, really. But we’re trying our best to get things back on track. Don’t worry; everything will be alright.” I said, trying to sound optimistic even though deep down, I wasn’t convinced that things would change soon.

“I hope so, Alessia. ’ll get back to work now,” Martha said.

I turned back to take orders from the few customers who had trickled in, forcing a smile as I filled in for the only waitress I’d retained—now a part-time student at the community college. Due to our current financial status, I had no choice but to fire most of my staff. I explained that I couldn’t afford to pay them anymore, so they left on good terms.

It was obvious that I might lose this waitress soon too; the meager salary I paid her wouldn’t cover her bills for long.

Memories flooded my mind—times when the restaurant overflowed with customers and Mum always talked about expanding. Those moments when I'd return home from college every break to help out here; joy and laughter filled every weekend during our ‘Happy Hour’—a night with musical performances and karaoke that put customers in a jolly mood and eased their stress. Plus, Mum used to give all customers discounts for their meals while Dad performed his favorite RnB tunes on his guitar, driving them wild.

All those memories had faded into the background with Mum's demise and the pandemic. She lost her battle with cancer during that period, leaving me with the responsibility of upholding our family legacy.

Here I was now, trying to keep this place together while the economic situation constantly undermined my efforts.

“I have worked so hard to keep this place afloat. It’s too late to give up now. Mum didn’t raise a quitter,” I thought as I packed a takeout order for my next customer. “Thank you for your patronage,” I said with a warm smile.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. Quickly rinsing my hands at the tap and wiping them on my apron, I answered the call. “Good morning, Miss Ray. This is Elton John from Stanford Bank.”

My mouth went dry at his introduction; I knew what this was about. I had been avoiding their calls and emails all week. “Hello? Miss Ray? Are you there?”

I cleared my throat and responded, “Yeah, I'm here. Good morning... What a...,” I trailed off before finishing with a forced smile, “what a pleasant surprise.”

“This isn't a courtesy call.”

“Of course it isn't. Who has time for that anyway?” I replied nervously.

“This is to inform you that your mortgage payment is overdue by six months. We have been lenient given the current economic situation, but unfortunately, our patience has worn thin.”

My palms grew clammy as my heart raced, sensing what was coming next. “If we do not receive payment within five days, we will have no choice but to initiate foreclosure proceedings on your property.” The statement hit me like a punch to the gut.

“I understand this may be difficult for you,” he continued coldly, “but our hands are tied by policy; we must adhere to the terms of the loan agreement.” The call ended before I could respond.

“When does it end?” I murmured under my breath. “Five days? How am I supposed to raise that kind of money in such a short time?” Despair washed over me as I rubbed my forehead feeling the onset of a headache.

“Sia, dear.” My head whipped around in surprise.

“Da... Dad?” I stuttered. “How long have you been standing there?”

“Not long,” he replied softly but looked pale and weary as he leaned against the doorframe.

I sighed in despair and walked toward him; this was one thing I'd wanted to hide from him. He was sick enough already—news like this could worsen his condition. Taking his hands in mine, which felt cold under my touch, I said gently, “I don’t want you to worry about this, Dad. I'll find a way to handle it.”

“But...” he objected weakly.

“No buts! You’re already stressing yourself by coming out here every day when there isn’t much for you to do anymore. Promise me you won’t add this to your worries.”

Hope flickered in his eyes as he opened his mouth to respond but only managed a wheezing sound instead. Panic surged through me as I realized something was wrong. “Dad? What’s going on? Breathe! Please!”

He bent over slightly, clutching his chest as the wheezing continued. Tears stung my eyes as fear gripped me tighter than ever before. “Dad! Please! Hang in there! Let me get you some water!”

As I turned quickly to grab a bottle from behind the counter, a loud thud reached my ears—a sound that sent chills down my spine. Spinning around in horror, I screamed at the sight of my father collapsed on the floor.

“Dad!”