Episode: 7 Sold by My Own Family

POV SOFIA

My mother's text came in again.

Your father is not feeling well. Come home.

I stared at it for a moment and thought, Is this how badly they wanted the money?

Then I grabbed my bag and left.

Because no matter how many times they had taken from me, no matter how many phone calls had ended with me feeling smaller than when I picked up, they were still my parents. And some part of me that hadn't learned better yet still responded to that word like it meant something unconditional.

I went.

The house looked exactly the same as it always did.

I stood outside for a moment before knocking, taking in the familiar door, the familiar window, the exterior of a place that had never quite managed to feel like home no matter how many years I spent inside it, and told myself it would be quick.

Check on my father.

Make sure he was okay.

Leave.

I knocked.

My mother opened the door.

She looked at me like I was nothing to her.

And strangely, that didn't bother me.

She simply stepped aside and let me in.

I walked through the door.

And stopped.

The living room was not empty.

My father was sitting in his chair—not sick, not resting, not showing any indication of the distress my mother's text had described.

He looked completely fine.

More than fine, actually.

He looked like a man who had been expecting something to arrive and was satisfied that it had.

And sitting across from him was a man I had never seen before.

Older.

Much older.

He sat with his hands resting on his knees, his eyes moving to me the moment I walked in—slow and deliberate—in a way that made something at the back of my neck stand up immediately.

I looked at my father.

Then at my mother.

Then at the stranger.

"What is this?" I said.

My father sat up straighter.

"Sit down, Sofia."

"What is this?" I said again.

Quieter this time.

Which was worse.

"I said sit down—"

"Who is this man?" I looked between my parents. "Why is he here? You said Dad was sick—"

"Sofia, just calm down and listen—" my mother started.

"How could you?"

I looked at her.

Just looked at her—at this woman who had carried me and raised me and looked through me for the better part of my entire existence.

"You texted me that Dad was sick. You made me come here. For this?"

I looked at the stranger.

"For what exactly?"

My father leaned forward.

"He is a good man," he said simply.

Like that explained everything.

Like that was supposed to reassure me.

"He has money. He is willing to pay a good price and take care of—"

"Pay."

The word left my mouth before I finished processing it.

"Pay."

"A good bride price, Sofia. More than we—"

"Stop."

My voice cracked.

"Stop talking."

My mother touched my arm.

"He is a responsible man. He will provide for you. This is a good opportunity—"

I pulled my arm away.

"You brought me here to sell me," I said.

"That is not—"

"That is exactly what this is!"

My voice broke through everything I had been using to hold myself together.

"I am your daughter! Your child! You texted me a lie to get me through that door so you could hand me to a complete stranger for money—"

My father stood up.

"How dare you."

His voice filled the room—low and hard and final, the way it had always been when he had decided a conversation was over.

"How dare you raise your voice in my house. In front of a guest."

"Your guest," I said. "A stranger you brought here to buy me."

"To secure your future!"

"Don't call it that!"

The words came out louder than I intended.

"Don't stand there and call it that like you are doing me any kind of favour!"

He crossed the room in three steps.

I didn't see it coming.

Just the sound—flat and hard—and then the sting spreading instantly across my cheek and the force of it knocking me sideways.

My hand shot out and found the kitchen doorframe before my legs gave completely.

I stood there bent slightly, hand pressed to my face, ears ringing, eyes burning with something I absolutely refused to let fall.

My father straightened his shirt.

Turned to the stranger.

Like I was nothing.

Like what he had just done was nothing.

"Take her," he said calmly to the man.

Like he was giving directions about furniture.

"She cannot hurt an ant. Just take her. We will collect the money after."

The stranger stood up.

Started toward me.

And something in me went very quiet.

Very certain.

Very done.

I moved to the kitchen.

I don't know if it was instinct or desperation or something that had been building since the moment I walked through that front door and saw a stranger sitting in my father's living room waiting for me like a transaction.

I just moved.

And my hand found the knife block on the counter.

I pulled one out.

Turned around.

The stranger was in the kitchen doorway.

He stopped.

The whole room stopped.

I stood there—hand still burning where my father had hit me, knife in my other hand, completely steady in a way I hadn't expected—and looked directly at the man my parents had invited into their home to purchase me.

"Move," I said quietly.

"Move one more step."

He didn't move.

Nobody moved.

My mother appeared behind him in the doorway.

Her eyes went from the knife to my face, then to the stranger.

She opened her mouth.

"She won't do anything," she said to the man.

Not to me.

Like I wasn't standing three feet away holding a knife.

Like I was a problem she was managing rather than a person she had raised.

"She has never hurt anyone in her life. She is just being dramatic. Sofia, put that down right now—"

The blade moved.

Barely.

Just enough to graze the side of the man's throat.

The lightest touch, hardly anything at all.

But the sound he made and the way his entire body went rigid told me it was enough.

I stepped back.

Opened my hand.

The knife hit the kitchen floor.

And I ran.

Through the kitchen.

Through the living room.

Past my father, who said something I didn't hear.

Through the front door, which I pulled open so hard it crashed against the wall behind it.

Outside, the evening air hit my face—cool against the side that was still burning—and I ran until my body decided it was finished running.

I was standing at the end of the road with my chest heaving and my hands shaking at my sides.

The house was behind me.

The street was ahead of me.

And nowhere in between felt safe.

A cab was moving at the far end of the road.

I stepped forward and raised both arms.

It stopped.

I got in.

I gave Claire's address.

My voice came out steadier than I felt.

I sat in the back and put my hands in my lap and watched them shake.

I said nothing for the entire journey.

Claire opened her door.

And surprised was showed on her face .she rushed

and reached out immediately, one hand on my arm, pulling me inside.

I watched her eyes drop to the corner of my lip where my father's hand had slapped.

Her expression did something I had never quite seen on her face before.

Quiet.

Still.

The specific stillness of someone feeling something very large and choosing very carefully what to do .

"Sit," she said.

I sat on her couch.

She went for the first-aid box—the one in the bathroom cabinet, the one I had teased her about keeping for years—and came back and settled beside me.

She began cleaning the cut at the corner of my lip with hands that were gentle and careful and did not shake at all.

"What happened to you.she said quietly.

So I told her.

All of it.

How she had texted me twice.

The house.

The stranger sitting in the living room like something had already been agreed.

My father's voice—Take her. She cannot hurt an ant. We will collect the money—calm and unhurried, like he was discussing a transaction that had nothing to do with me even though it was entirely about me.

The slap.

The kitchen.

The knife.

Running.

she pulled me into a tight hug.you be fine she said and continued why don't you just stay with me for now. I nod I will get my clothes tomorrow I was still saying when Claire cut me off don't worry I pick it myself go rest now while I wash the plate okay I say and went to the room