"Give Me Back What is Mine"

Based on A True Story

I will never forget that night. My dad slapped me. He slapped me and was almost shouting at me. He was so angry, so mad, so furious.

I stole something from him. It's really no big deal, it's just something small and cheap - now that I look back to think - and it's so insignificant. It's not like I stole a nuclear bomb and planned to destruct the whole world, or the family pendant that I took to a pawn shop.

It was just a little handkerchief. A small, cotton handkerchief that I liked very very much. It had a nice little flower pattern at the bottom left corner, and a brown frame half a cm from the borders of the handkerchief. It was soft and it was smooth, and I loved it very much.

Stumbling upon that handkerchief for the first time in my parents' room, it was lying on the floor, like it belonged to nobody. But of course, despite my age, I could have already deduced by then that if it was on the floor in my parents' room, then it had to belong to my parents. I picked it up, brought it to my mother and asked her whether I could have it.

"It's not mine, it's your dad's. Go ask him."

And my heart sank. I knew that I would never be able to have it. My dad is a stingy man. He will never give me what I want. Even a small toy or an ice-cream, I was dead sure that if I were to ask him, I'd be better off not asking for it in the very first place. If I wanted something real badly, it would have to be asked from my mother, and not my dad.

Secretly, I kept the handkerchief. I wanted it very badly. It was nice to touch and hold. Especially when you are bored - after all, I was just a kid who had nothing better to do - I would just lie on the bed, and play with that handkerchief. It was my little companion from the first day I found it, and it was my source of happiness and imagination. I wrapped it around my head and played pirates, I put it over my mouth and I was a thief, I tied it on my knee and impersonated a limping soldier wounded in battle.

Later, the handkerchief became more than just a source of imagination, it became my little comfort zone. I'd come back from school emotionally bruised after being bullied by the kids in the kindergarten, and I'd lock myself up in the room and take out the handkerchief from under my bed, and start wiping my tears with it. Then holding it in my head, I'd talk to it as if as I was allowing the handkerchief to understand what I was going through. There were the times that I thought it didn't know what I was talking about, and I'd get so fed-up of it and will just throw it around, only to feel bad for treating my 'good friend' that way, pick it up, wipe the dust of it and rub it lovingly again.

But alas, my dad found out about the handkerchief, and trust me, he sure was furious.

"How dare you take something from me without permission?" He bellowed. That was stealing, he claimed.

But you already have so many handkerchiefs, why couldn't I just take that one? Not like it means so much to you... And I refused to return that handkerchief. I love it so much, why couldn't I keep it? I'm taking very good care of it, I even wash it every week secretly. What's wrong?

"Give me back what is mine." he commanded. I refused. He repeated the command, and I still refused.

That did it. The slap came flying towards me and landed accurately on my cheek. Taken off by the blow, the impact sent me sprawling on the ground. Heat seared on my face, tears welled in my eyes, I grew even more resilient and angry.

"It wil never be yours!" I yelled and I ran up to my room.

Soon, things became very hostile between me and my dad. He became that angry and fearful man to me, and I will always dodge away from him when he comes into sight, even at home. Could you actually imagine a little 6-year-old kid avoiding his dad in his dad's house and home? Ridiculously hilarious, but that was me back then.

And I realized, that nothing will ever change, until and unless I surrender that handkerchief back to him.

There was only one reason why I refused to give the handkerchief up. I wanted it so badly, and that was only because I thought I found comfort in that handkerchief. To me, that handkerchief is my world. Eevrything to me. And I couldn't live without it.

One night, my dad walked into my room, sat down beside me on the bed, and looked at me. I nearly pissed in my pants, but as I saw into my dad's eyes, I saw so much love, so much forgiveness, so much kindness through his eyes. The evil dad that wouldn't even allow me to give me a small handkerchief, was now a gentle and loving dad.

"Son," he said softly while running his fingers through my hair. "It's not about the handkerchief, but when you steal something that's not yours, when you take something that's mine and not yours, how can I give you something better, that I have always wanted to give you?"

I hid my face underneath my blanket. Deep inside, I was so angry with myself that I made my dad so mad back then, and yet there's a struggle to surrender the handkerchief that I've grown so fond of up. I didn't want to lose a little possession, but I didn't want to make my dad angry either.

"Will you give me back what is mine?" This time, the gentle voice over the blanket, prompted me to do the right thing.

Pulling out the handkerchief from under my pillow, I held it in my palms and gazed at it for a last time. Thank you for everything you've been to me, little handkerchief. Controlling my tears and my feelings, I slowly handed the handkerchief back to my dad. A little smile carved across his face as I gently dropped the cloth into my dad's palm.

With one hand stuffing the handkerchief into his pocket, he pulled out another handkerchief with the other hand from a different pocket. He took my little hand, and firmly gave me that new handkerchief. A brand new handkerchief, it was far smoother and silkier than the cotton handkerchief. It had embroidery and was made of silk linen, and had the most sophisticated golden designs all across the handkerchief. Later I discovered it was a silk fabric imported from Italy, and it was worth a treasure to many people.

"The best things in life comes," he paused to look at me again, "when you make that choice to give me what I want so I can give you things that are even better."

That handkerchief still stays in my pocket till now. If I knew that I could have got a better handkerchief from Italy than the one found on the floor, I would have never even looked at the floor, but would have straight looked up to my dad, and asked for it, believing that though he will not say yes immediately, he will never let me not have what is best for me.