Mike’s life was a weary routine of long hours and mounting debts, overshadowed by regret and bitterness he couldn’t shake. Each day, he trudged through his grocery store shift, the beep of the checkout scanner echoing like a reminder of dreams long lost. The few words he offered customers—“Have a good day”—felt hollow. Good days were luxuries he never seemed to afford.
His phone vibrated yet again, another overdue medical bill looming. His mother, Kaila, was locked in a stubborn battle against a relentless illness, and every treatment, every hospital visit, drained what little they had. Six days a week, Mike worked, but it was never enough. He was always behind, always on the brink.
That evening, the cramped apartment he shared with his mother was cast in dim light. Kaila huddled under a thin blanket on the couch.
“Hey, Mom,” he greeted softly, setting his bag down.
“How was work, sweetheart?” she asked, her voice fragile but warm.
“It was fine,” he lied, forcing a reassuring smile.
“You work too hard,” she said gently. “I hate seeing you carry this alone.”
Mike swallowed the knot in his throat. “It’s fine, Mom. I’ve got it handled.” But they both knew that was far from true.
Later, in the quiet of his bedroom, Mike surveyed the stacks of unopened bills. Their weight felt physical, pressing down on his shoulders. His gaze drifted to a dusty box in the corner—the one holding his grandmother Grace’s Bible. It had been years since he last touched it, years since he’d stood defiant in the face of her unwavering faith.
Continue reading on next page…