The day was ordinary—too ordinary for a tragedy to hide within it.
Azel's father left home that morning to buy groceries, smiling faintly through the ache in his chest. His heart had never been strong, yet he never let his family see his weakness. Before stepping out, he had placed a gentle hand on his son's head and said,
"Take care of your mother and little sister, Azel. You're the man of the house when I'm not here."
Azel was only four. He didn't understand what those words meant. He simply nodded, his wide innocent eyes filled with pride.
Inside the house, his mother was pregnant and weak. When nausea struck, Azel patted her back clumsily, whispering, "It's okay, Mama." She smiled through her pain, her little boy's tiny hands warm with love.
After helping her, Azel turned back to his favorite cartoon, laughing at the bright colors on the screen. But the laughter in that home would soon fade.
That afternoon, his father returned—not on his own feet. A friend carried him in, breath shallow, foam gathering at his lips. Azel didn't understand. He thought his father was only sleeping. His mother's cries filled the house as she tried to wake her husband. Still pregnant, she carried him to the hospital, tears streaming down her face. Azel was left with the neighbors, too young to realize his father would never come back.
The next morning, his uncle came to fetch him. "We're going to see your father," he said.
As they walked through the street, Azel's eyes caught a small shop where colorful Rubik's cubes were sold—one with his favorite cartoon printed on it. He tugged at his uncle's sleeve. "Can I have that?" The man sighed and bought it for him.
At the funeral, while others wept, Azel sat quietly, twisting his new cube, lost in a world of colors. He didn't understand death—only that his father wasn't coming back.
Years passed. Azel grew up helping his mother and caring for his baby sister. He wasn't a bright student, but he was kind, gentle, and always ready to help. When other children boasted about their fathers, he smiled softly, saying nothing. His happiness lived within his mother's smile.
But even that peace didn't last.
One day, his mother scolded him for his poor grades. "I'm ashamed of you," she said.
Her words pierced deeper than any blade. Azel lowered his head and whispered, "It's okay… I love you, Mama."
That night, while watching television, a man visited. His mother greeted him warmly—it was a relative, already married with children. They talked and laughed, but when the topic shifted to Azel's studies, everything changed.
"Does this boy even know how many months are in a year?" the man asked sharply.
Azel shook his head, terrified to look him in the eyes.
The man's voice turned harsh. "Bring me a stick."
His mother hesitated, then obeyed. The man struck Azel across the legs.
"Look at him—biting his teeth like a little beast," he sneered.
His mother laughed nervously. "He's not! Tell him you'll do better, Azel. Tell him you'll make me proud."
Tears streaming, Azel nodded. "Yes… I will."
"Stop crying," the man barked. "You're a boy, aren't you?"
His mother added softly, "Don't cry, Azel. I'm doing this for your own good."
He was then ordered to kneel on the cold stone floor, hands raised with heavy books resting on them. Blood slowly formed at his knees, but Azel stayed silent. He clenched his teeth, not from hatred—but from love.
He didn't understand what his mother and the man did later behind closed doors, only that strange noises echoed through the walls. His little sister fell asleep watching TV, unaware of her brother's quiet suffering. Azel stayed in that position for hours until the man left.
When it was over, his mother returned, her voice gentle again. "Go wash up and eat, Azel."
And just like that, the kind mother he loved was back. He smiled through the pain, cleaned his wounds, and sat down to eat dinner beside her as if nothing had happened.
This became his life.
Day after day, the same cycle of pain, silence, and love.
He never told anyone. When neighbors asked who that man was, Azel simply said, "A relative." He didn't want anyone to think badly of his mother. He endured everything, quietly.
Years passed. The visits continued. The man's car would stop by after tuition hours. "Why didn't you greet me, boy?" he'd scold.
"I didn't see you," Azel would answer timidly.
"You didn't see me? Where are your eyes?"
Fear always silenced him. Yet, when he saw his sister smile or his mother laugh, it felt worth it. He told himself, as long as they're happy, I can endure anything.
By the time Azel reached high school, the visits stopped. The man vanished from their lives. But the scars didn't.
Azel grew quiet, detached, always looking down when others spoke. His stammer made classmates mock him. "Brain-dead fool," they called him. He sometimes envied others who had girlfriends, but deep down, he didn't believe he was worthy of love.
Still, he lived. He studied, worked, and cared for his mother and sister. When his sister fell in love, he stayed silent. When she married, he paid for everything. He fulfilled every promise his father couldn't.
But then his mother passed away too. The house grew silent—just like the day his father died.
Azel stood by her grave, whispering, "I did everything you asked, Mama."
He wanted to die, too. But her words echoed in his mind:
"Only the weak give up on life."
So he didn't die. He lived.
And that's how Azel—the boy who once played with a Rubik's cube at his father's funeral—became a man who carried pain like a crown.
He lived not because life was kind… but because he refused to be weak.
He lived.
And that choice would one day change everything.