The zip of the bag opening was deafening in the spacious, echoey room. I cracked the zipper open and peered into the cavernous interior. A neat row of envelopes of different sizes and colors was tucked snugly into the main compartment. They seemed to be organized into three separate clusters, each held together by thin rubber bands of different colors.

‘This might be it,’ I thought to myself, running a finger along the tops of the envelopes, trying to decide where to begin, which envelope to tear into first.

I decided to move from left to right. That way, I could easily remember how to put everything back so no one would notice anyone had been rummaging through this stash of… well, I was going to find out.

I plucked one white envelope out. It was creased and going a bit limp, as if it had been opened multiple times. Inside was—jackpot—a small bundle of cash. It was foreign currency, but that wasn’t a problem. The nearest forex was a ten minute walk from our place.

Rifling through the rest of the envelopes, I saw that this must have been all the cash leftover from his travels across the globe. Currencies I didn’t even know the names for.

“This could work.” I muttered under my breath despite the empty room.

I couldn’t be greedy, though. Not when I had no idea how often he opened up this bag. It was dusty and covered in lint when I found it, but I couldn’t make assumptions.

I took out a few bills from the envelope with the US dollars—the currency whose exchange rate I was most familiar with. Carefully, I repositioned it in its slot in the bag, making sure it was exactly where I left it—same stack, same rubber band.

Just after closing the zipper, I heard footsteps outside, getting closer. There was no place I could go without being suspicious—I had no real reason to be in there. I spotted the massive gap underneath their enormous bed and slipped under it as the doorknob turned. It was cool yet dusty under there—a familiar place. We hadn’t been allowed to lock our bedroom doors when we were young, so I used to hide here when I wanted to be alone.

I was totally invisible.

🔗

Growing up in our house, we were taught to be invisible.

When we were kids, whenever we accidentally left something—anything—outside our rooms, we would never see it again. My mom would confiscate whatever it was and, once she had it, it was gone forever.

It would always be our fault: we weren't supposed to leave traces of ourselves anywhere except our own rooms. We were taught to clear the dining table after every meal so that it looked as if it had not been used since the beginning of time. As if we had never existed.

The only one allowed to exist was my father. Our house wasn't really our house—it was His house. And He was only one allowed to break these unbreakable rules.

Our family, despite my usage of the word "family," was not in any sense familial except on paper. Hierarchy reigned: children answered to mom; wife answered to Husband. There was no sense of "dad"—he didn't exist. The man residing in his body was two-dimensional: he was either Provider or Master. Even in his absence, his memory haunted the house, covering it like a shroud that provided no warmth.

Consequently, our family never fostered closeness—just the illusion of it. Our house was a house of disconnected strangers sharing a last name. Our living room, always elegantly furnished and decorated, was a hotel lobby: springy pillows, enormous coffee table books, table sculptures, expensive paintings, and crystal chandeliers. No family photographs, no accoutrements of personality or traces of any character other than Wealthy. That was how He preferred it to be: a place of visitation, not residence.

🔗

My father, the rageful lord, scowled the moment he saw a lone toy on the carpet, forgotten or overlooked by one of my siblings. Even if it had been mine, I would never admit to it. Not even decades later. Years of adulthood have passed and yet my physiology still carries remnants of fear carried along from childhood. This paternal fear was a residual organ. It sat coiled in my breast, right beside my heart, like an iron serpent unable to slither away.

As soon as we’d heard my father’s car horn blast outside the house, we had hurriedly tidied up all evidence of our existence. But sometimes we made mistakes. Sometimes, our playful, childlike natures would venture out into our confined little world, daring us to forget the book of rules stamped into our heads. Daring us to be the very things we were—children.

But, as my mom always said, never take dares. And never make mistakes. It was a straightforward rule, but one without much explanation or nuance.

My brother paid a lot for that forgotten toy. Corporal punishment, apparently, was fit for every crime—even the petty misdemeanors. The question was did he really deserve it?

He’d been dumb enough to talk back, to call out our father for his hypocrisy. He mentioned the plates and the double standards. For that, he got smacked. Once, twice, five times with the belt on his bare buttocks. Fake leather, not real—he wasn’t worth ruining a perfectly good Saint Laurent.

My sister and I were huddled under the covers in the master bedroom, witnesses to the brutality. She was sobbing, but I was smirking. Thinking. ‘Better him than me.’