The Debt of Blood

My father raised me on one principle: fair exchange.

If I wanted anything, I had to earn it myself.

Fifty cents for washing the dishes. A dollar for mopping the floor. Five dollars for a perfect score on a test.

To buy the pair of white sneakers I had been dreaming of, I spent three months collecting recyclables.

In that house, I lived like a pieceworker, paid by the task.

It was not until my senior year of high school that everything began to crack. I collapsed during morning study, my body worn down by years of malnutrition.

The doctor said I needed better nutrition.

My father stood by my hospital bed and started doing the math.

"Three hundred for the hospital stay. Two hundred for medication. Chester, this all goes on your tab for the future."

I turned my head and saw a boy in a school uniform in the next bed. His father was feeding him spoonfuls of chicken soup, his eyes red with worry.

In that moment, the world I had known for 18 years fell apart.

It turned out not every child had to earn their parents' love.

After I was discharged, I went home and saw the pair of designer sneakers on my brother's feet; it was worth thousands.

That was when I finally woke up.

I tore up the family photo and, without hesitation, applied to the college farthest from home.

Ten years later, my father called me in tears. My brother had taken all his retirement savings, sold the house, and run off with his girlfriend.

He was left with nothing. No home. No one.

I smiled and tossed him a rag.

"Want a place to stay? Sure. It's 50 cents per window. Earn your own rent."

The sharp smell of disinfectant hit my nose, and that was when my consciousness finally started to come back.

The first thing I saw was my dad's face, so icy it seemed to freeze the room.

"You're awake?"

He did not even look up. His fingers kept tapping away at a calculator, the buttons clicking nonstop.

"The doctor said it's just low blood sugar and malnutrition. Nothing serious.

"Hospital fee, 300. Tests, 180. Medicine, 120. Chester, I'll cover this for you for now."

He lifted his head and turned the calculator toward me. The screen showed a number: 600.

My lips were so dry and cracked that I could not get a single word out.

During morning study, I was reciting vocabulary when everything suddenly went black, and I collapsed.

Right before I lost consciousness, my last thought was that my perfect attendance bonus for the month was gone.

Yeah. To keep me motivated, my dad had made a rule. No being late, no leaving early for an entire month, and I would get 50 bucks.

However, 50 dollars was not even one-tenth of the hospital bill.

"Dad…" I struggled to sit up.

He frowned and pressed me back down. "Don't move. If you break any equipment, that's more money."

Just then, a gentle voice came from the bed next to mine.

"Careful, it's still hot. Don't burn yourself. No one's taking it from you."

I turned my head. A boy about my age, wearing the same school uniform, was leaning against his bed. His dad stood beside him, holding a thermos. Spoonful by spoonful, he blew on the chicken soup to cool it before bringing it to his son's lips.

"Dad, I'm not a kid anymore. You don't have to feed me," the boy said, a little embarrassed.

"No matter how old you are, you're still my son." His dad wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, his voice thick with worry. "Look at you. You're so pale. Senior year is wearing you down. When we get home, I'll make you soup every day. Your health matters more than school. Worst case, you skip the exams. I can take care of you for the rest of your life."

The boy smiled, his eyes shining.

I stared at the steaming bowl of chicken soup, my stomach twisting with a sour ache.

My whole life, I had never had anything like that. Forget chicken soup. Even a boiled egg had to be earned with what my dad called 'chore credits.'

If I swept the floor once, I would get one credit. If I did all the laundry, three. Each credit was worth 50 cents. One boiled egg would cost two.

That was my dad's idea of a 'fair exchange.'

In our house, love was a luxury. It had a price tag.

Seeing me stare at the next bed, my dad curled his lips.

"What are you looking at? That kid was born lucky. You're just a nobody. If you don't earn it yourself, who will feed you?"

His words cut deep, hitting exactly where it hurt most.

The father and son next door fell silent, both looking at me with sympathy.

So, that was my life. Born to be a piece-rate worker in my own home.

It seemed like fathers like that really did exist. The kind who gave without counting the cost, without asking for anything in return.

I slowly closed my eyes and forced the tears back. Then, I looked at my dad's sharp, self-righteous face and calmly said, "Dad, don't worry.

"I'll return the 600 dollars to you.

"And every cent you've spent raising me these past 18 years."