Chapter 1 : A daughter's choice.
My life had always been simple—quiet and predictable, wrapped in the small-town comfort of Forks, Washington. The world moved slowly here, like the thick fog that clung to the trees, softening the edges of the day until it felt like time was suspended in some forgotten corner of the world. I could always count on the smell of rain-soaked pine trees in the morning air, the quiet creak of my father's old cruiser as he drove home from work, and the sight of my mother bustling in the kitchen, humming some old tune while she set the table.
But all of that changed when my mother's health began to decline.
The first time she coughed—just a slight rasp in her throat—I didn't think much of it. I had chalked it up to the cold weather, the dampness that seemed to settle in our bones. But soon, the coughing became more frequent, more laboured. Her face grew pale, her hands trembled whenever she reached for the teacup at the table, and the once vibrant woman who had spent her days gardening and cooking now spent more and more time lying in bed.
It was a shock to see her so frail. The house, once full of the smells of freshly baked bread and the soft laughter of family dinners, now had the scent of medicinal herbs and the sterile smell of old sheets. The fire that once burned bright in her eyes was now just a flicker, her tired gaze forever fixed out the window, watching the clouds drift over the mountains.
The bills, too, began to pile up. First, it was small things—copays for doctor visits, a few prescriptions here and there. But before long, the stack of overdue notices grew to the size of a mountain, and my father's income from his job as a police officer wasn't nearly enough to cover it. His strong hands, calloused from years of work, would shuffle through the papers, his brow furrowed in concentration as he tried to figure out how to stretch every dollar.
My father was a man of few words, a stoic, silent figure who never asked for help. He carried his burdens alone, shouldering them with a quiet determination that I admired but could never quite understand. As each night fell, I would watch him in the flickering light of the kitchen lamp, hunched over the piles of bills that seemed to multiply by the hour. His tired eyes, usually sharp and clear, were now clouded with worry. The years of being a police officer had already etched lines into his face, but now they were deepened by the weight of his own fear.
The smell of cheap coffee wafted from the cup in front of him, his hands trembling slightly as he sipped it, trying to stay awake for just a few more hours, just a few more minutes. But the weariness was clear in his movements, the slump of his shoulders, the quiet sighs that escaped him when he thought no one was listening.
Every night after my shift at the local diner, I would come home to find him still at the table, working by the dull glow of the gas lamp. The shadows danced on the walls, and the only sound was the crackle of the fire in the hearth. I could see the strain in his face, his eyes constantly flicking between the bills and the clock, trying to keep track of time as it slipped away from him.
"Dad?" I called softly from the doorway one evening, my voice thick with emotion.
He didn't look up at first, too caught up in the labyrinth of papers in front of him. The clock ticked on, its second hand clicking away in the silence. The warm, slightly musty air of the house felt thick with the weight of unspoken words.
"What is it, Bells?" His voice was rough, as though he hadn't spoken in hours.
"I—I don't know what to do anymore," I said, stepping further into the room. "I hate seeing you like this. It's not right."
He finally looked up at me, his expression unreadable. The oil lamp flickering light cast shadows on his face, making him look older than his years. He didn't answer immediately. Instead, his gaze dropped to the pile of papers before him, as if searching for an answer among the scribbles and numbers.
"You don't need to worry about this, Bells," he said, his tone soft but firm, like he was trying to convince both of us. "You just focus on your schoolwork. It's more than enough for now."
But I couldn't focus. I couldn't pretend that everything was fine while I watched him break under the pressure. I could see it—his hands, once so steady, now shaking as they moved from paper to paper. His jaw clenched with effort, but his exhaustion was written all over him.
"I can't just sit here and do nothing," I whispered, my heart heavy with guilt. "We're drowning, Dad. You're working yourself to the bone, and I—"
"I said don't worry about it," he snapped, but the sharpness in his voice didn't carry the usual strength. Instead, it sounded fragile, like a thin piece of thread stretched too tight.
I stared at him for a long moment, feeling the familiar lump in my throat, the tightness in my chest that told me everything I needed to know. My father wasn't going to ask for help. He was too proud, too stubborn. But I couldn't keep watching him suffer in silence.
"Dad," I said, my voice steadying, "I'm going to do something. I have to."
His eyes softened, but the worry still lingered in them. "What do you mean, Bells?"
"I'll find something," I said, more to myself than to him. "Something that can help. Maybe… maybe I'll get a second job. Or find another way to cover these bills."
For a long time, there was only silence between us, punctuated by the faint ticking of the clock and the crackle of the fire. He didn't argue, but I could tell he was thinking it over, trying to weigh my words against his own pride. I could see the hesitation in his eyes, the battle between letting me step up and wanting to protect me from the burden.
"I'll figure it out, Bells," he muttered finally, his voice quiet. "You don't need to be involved in this."
But I couldn't accept that. I couldn't just stand by while everything we had slipped away, piece by piece. I wasn't sure what the solution was yet, but I knew I couldn't stay passive. Not anymore.
"I'll help, Dad," I repeated, a little more firmly this time. "I'm not going to leave you to do this alone."
I turned to leave, but before I reached the door, I heard him call my name softly.
"Be careful, Bells," he said. "Don't bite off more than you can chew."
I nodded, my heart heavy, but determined. There was no going back now. I would find a way. I had to. For both of us.