Chapter 2: The Unthinkable Request

An unthinkable request came three days later.

The father sat in the courtyard, mending a fishing net the way he had done a thousand times before. The morning was quiet. Ordinary. The elder son worked in the distant fields. Birds sang from the olive trees.

The younger son's shadow fell across the stones.

YOUNGER SON“Father. I need to speak with you.”

The father looked up and smiled. But something in his son's voice made the smile fade.

YOUNGER SON“Father, give me my share of the estate.”— Luke 15:12

The father's hands stopped moving. The net slipped from his fingers.

Inheritance was given when a father died. To ask for it now — while the father still breathed — was to say something no son should ever say. I wish you were gone. I cannot wait for you to die. Give me what is mine so I can leave.

The father understood. Every word. Every weight.

He did not speak. He could not speak. He simply looked at his son, the boy he had taught to count stars, the boy whose laughter had once filled this silent house.

FATHER“Do you know what you are asking me?”

The son's jaw tightened. He stared at the ground. Then the son answered "I know."

From the edge of the courtyard, a figure appeared. The elder son had returned from the fields. He stood in the doorway, watching. Listening.

He said nothing.

In their tradition, the older brother should speak. He should step forward, calm things down, defend the father's honor. But he did not move. His face remained stone. His arms stayed folded.

The silence stretched like a wound.

Finally, the father rose. His legs felt weak. His chest felt hollow. He looked at his younger son one more time — searching for doubt, for hesitation, for any sign this was not real.

He found nothing.

FATHER“Then it is yours.”

He turned and walked into the house.

He did not weep. Not yet.