The Gift
- Rushad Tata
- Feb 20
- 5 min read
The humid air hung heavy in the slum, a suffocating blanket woven with the stench of garbage and the despair of its inhabitants. Maria and her two children, Jack and Samantha, who were 12 and 8, although it was a cramped, dilapidated shack that barely shielded them from the elements it was their home. Their lives were a series of relentless struggles, a desperate need for survival living off from one paycheck to another.
Maria worked endlessly, juggling two minimum-wage jobs – a diner waitress during the day and a cleaning lady at night. Her hands were rough, her eyes perpetually tired, but her spirit, though battered, remained unbroken. She was a shield against the harsh world for protecting her children from the constant threat of poverty and societal scorn.
Their ostracism stemmed from the actions of a single man who was Maria’s husband. He was in prison, convicted of murder, a dark stain that marked their family forever. Maria would whisper to herself, "Sinners judge sinners for sinning differently”, whenever someone would pass judgmental stares and whispered insults. The weight of his crime fell heavily on Jack’s young shoulders. He bore the brunt of the community’s prejudice, the whispers, the pointed fingers. “The debt of the father is always paid by their son,” a cruel saying echoed in his ears, a constant reminder of his inherited burden.
Jack was a quiet boy, too mature for his age. He understood the precariousness of their situation, the constant threat of eviction, and a frequent visitor called hunger. He saw the lines etched on his mother’s face, the dark circles under her eyes, and the way her shoulders slumped with exhaustion. He yearned to ease her burden, to somehow alleviate the crushing eight she was under.
He had tried reaching out to distant relatives, hoping for a lifeline, a sliver of hope. But they turned him away, their faces etched with disgust. They wanted nothing to do with a “murderer’s family.” The rejection stung, deepening the sense of isolation that already enveloped them.
At school, Jack was a target. Bullies taunted him, their words laced with venom, twisting his father’s crime into a weapon against him. They called him names, and pushed him around, their cruelty fueled by prejudice. He endured it all in silence but his heart was aching with shame, anger, and helplessness.
Food was a constant struggle. Some day all they had was a piece of stale old bread. Maria would always insist, “I’m not hungry, please eat,” pushing the meager portions toward her children. Samantha, too young to fully grasp their predicament, would happily devour her share, oblivious to the sacrifice her mother was making. Jack saw through this charade. He saw the hunger in her eyes, the slight tremble in her hands while she passed her bread. He knew she was starving, denying herself food so that her children could eat.
The loan sharks were a constant menace, their presence a dark cloud hanging over their already precarious lives. They were relentless, demanding repayment for a loan Maria had taken out to cover unexpected medical expenses. They would appear at their doorstep at all hours, their voices harsh, their threats veiled but unmistakable.
One particularly harrowing evening, they arrived in force. They ransacked the small shack, seizing anything of even minimal value – a worn-out television, a chipped radio, and even some of Samantha’s toys. They left behind a trail of destruction and a chilling warning: if the money wasn’t paid soon, they would take the children as collateral.
That night, the fear was palpable, a thick, suffocating presence in the small shack. Jack lay awake, listening to his mother’s soft sobs. He heard her whisper, her voice choked with despair, “If only I had fewer people to take care of… but I love them so much.” The words pierced Jack’s heart like a knife. He knew his mother was at her breaking point, overwhelmed by the weight of their struggles that she carried all alone. He felt responsible, a burden on his other’s already overwhelmed shoulders. He thought of Samantha, innocent and unaware, and the thought of her being taken away was unbearable. He felt he had to do something, anything, to ease his mother's suffering in any way he could.
On the night of May 10th, Jack couldn't shake the feeling of responsibility and he needed to do something about it. He felt the enormous weight of the world on his small shoulders. He tossed and turned in his bed the image of his mother's face full of tears burned into his mind. The loan sharks' threats echoed in his ears, their words a constant torment. He thought of his sister’s innocent laughter, and her bright smile, and the thought of her being taken away filled him with dread.
He got up quietly, careful not to wake his mother or sister. He found a piece of paper and a pencil, his hand trembling as he began to write. He poured out his heart, his words a mixture of love and gratitude.
The morning of May 11th, Maria woke to an eerie silence. The small shack felt colder, and emptier. She called out for Jack, but there was no response. Her heart pounded in her chest, a premonition of dread washing over her. She found him in the small space they used as a living room, hanging lifeless from the ceiling fan. Her scream was raw and primal, a cry of anguish that echoed through the slum.
Clutched in his hand was a letter, his final words to his mother: “Thank you for being such a kind mother. Let my death be in the past and live the future with my sister with a smile on your face. I have saved 500rs in my pillowcase, I hope it helps you in any way it can. I hope you can remember me as a kind son and not a burden. Happy Mother’s Day, this is the best gift I can give you.”
The words were a dagger to Maria's heart, a testament to her son’s profound love and his desperate attempt to unburden her. The 500 rupees, a small fortune to Jack, was a heartbreaking symbol of his sacrifice. It was his way of saying, "I tried to help." Samantha, too young to comprehend the finality of death, wandered into the room, her eyes filled with confusion. “Mommy, why is Jack sleeping up there?” she asked, her voice small and innocent. Maria could only hold her daughter close, the weight of grief was too much for her. The loss of her son, a sacrifice born out of love and desperation, was a wound that would never heal. The slum, already a place of despair, became a tomb. The gift of a son taking his own life on Mother’s Day was the cruelest gift of all.
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