The Bet

That night, Mariela’s dad stumbled into the house, tears streaking his face. He’d made a bet with his worst enemy—“the bastard”—about the outcome of the football club’s big game. According to the absurd bet, if his enemy lost, the loser’s wife would have to spend the entire day in her office serving coffee in an insanely awkward situation… wearing a short, low-cut dress.

Of course, fueled by booze, both men kept ratcheting the bet up, egged on by their bohemian friends.

“That team’s unbeatable, Manuel! Let his wife get naked!” laughter erupted.

“The wife of this moron sells arepas in the plaza, so if he loses, she should sell them naked!”

The stakes got real when a cop overheard them.

“I’m in on that,” he said, as it happened, his patrol buddies were on duty that day.

“Yeah? Well, make it your daughter, asshole!”

“Never. I’d rather it be your wife…”

“Your daughter.”

“Then your daughter too!”

By the time the ninety minutes were up, it came down to a tiebreaker. And in those five extra minutes, one insane goal decided the fate of these two drunk idiots.

That same night, while the streetlight barely lit the kitchen, Mariela’s dad tiptoed in. Her mom and Mariela were watching TV—a vampire soap opera, of all things. He flicked on the light, trying to steady his drunken self as he explained the fallout of the bet.

“Mariela,” he slurred, reeking of booze, “according to the bet, you’re gonna cover for your mom at the arepa stand first thing tomorrow.”

Mariela stared at him, incredulous.

“And school?”

“Yeah, yeah, I know… just go to bed, kiddo,” he mumbled, swaying.

“It’s serious, honey. I lost the bet. My daughter’s gotta step in for you.”

“In the plaza? People will laugh at me… my classmates… I can’t even imagine…”

“I do it every day for twelve hours, and I ain’t ashamed of being a hardworking woman,” her mom said.

“I’m not ashamed of you, Mom. Just me… But if you want me to do it, I will.”

“You’ll see, I make a living keeping this house afloat.”

“You don’t contribute much,” her dad grumbled.

“I’ll do it with pride, showing that a woman can handle anything,” her mom said, chin up.

“You’ll just wear the apron,” her dad added with a crooked grin.

“What’d you say? Pervert, two-legged rat!”

“That’s the bet, sweetie.”

“But that barely covers anything,” she said, half worried, half curious.

Her mom smacked his head lightly, part teasing, part exasperated.

“Idiot, how could you bet your daughter’s exposure like that?”

“It’s just a bet, don’t hit me!” he tried to justify. “She doesn’t have to do it.”

“You’re a terrible dad,” her mom snapped, shaking her head.

“I’m her stepdad, and I love her,” he added, pride blurred by alcohol.

“You’re still a fool,” her mom muttered, concerned.

“Mariela, honey… what do you think about all this?” he asked, swaying as he tried to assert some authority.

“It’s crazy,” she said honestly.

“So… you’re not gonna do it?” he pressed, worried. Mariela’s heart raced, unsure what to say. Then, to her surprise…

“Of course you will, sweetie,” her mom interjected, her soft voice encouraging. “It won’t be dangerous—it’s just the plaza, nothing more.”

“But…” Mariela began.

“A bet is about honor,” her dad interrupted.

“Honor? There’s no honor among drunks,” her mom replied, smirking.

“There is. And… it kinda excites me,” her dad shrugged.

“Remember, even if I’m your stepdad, I love you. You don’t have to do it. I can pay off the bet another way,” he added, trying to ease the tension.

Mariela smiled. She knew she’d be in the spotlight, but something inside urged her to accept the challenge.

“I’ll do it,” she said. “And to prove I’m not ashamed, I’ll do it for the family.”

Her imaginary ghost dog, her comfort companion, appeared, licking her hand and face, offering tenderness and confidence. She breathed deeply, feeling that presence strengthen her for the plaza and the crowd.

“Don’t be crazy, honey. This is a joke. Go to bed, I need to talk to your dad,” her mom said, half worried, half amused.

“Mom, I want to do it. And get used to it: this makes me feel alive,” Mariela replied, full of energy and determination.

Her dad sighed, swaying, and muttered, “Alright… but remember, this is insane.”

“I know, Dad,” Mariela said. “But maybe this is my chance to grow up. And… the loss of my dog taught me to be brave.”

“Remember, the dog’s just your imagination, and nudism as a lifestyle is too,” her mom added, smiling weakly. “But it gives you strength, right?”

That night, Mariela listened to her stepdad whisper, “Once upon a time, there was a brave girl dressed in wind…”

The story went on as she prepared herself mentally for the day ahead. By morning, she felt ready to step into the world, aware that visibility and composure could be her power.

Hours later, the first birds chirped across the city rooftops, and the plaza smelled of freshly grilled arepas and hot chocolate. Mariela took a deep breath, slid on the light apron, let the chilly air wake her, and greeted neighbors with a brilliant smile. She pushed the cart, feeling the cobblestones under her bare feet, each step a mix of anxiety and control.

A jealous classmate eyed her, biting sarcasm in her words.

“Look at you, Mariela… showing off again, and you know it,” she sneered. “You think everyone’s on your side?”

Mariela inhaled, letting the ethereal ghost dog soothe her mind. “I don’t need accomplices. I’m just working, balancing exposure and honor, paying off the bet my dad made with yours,” she whispered.

The crowd pressed in, poking and nudging, testing her poise. But Mariela stayed calm, each glance a challenge she met silently.

“Being exposed doesn’t make me weak. Other people’s eyes don’t define me. Composure isn’t blind obedience—it’s standing firm amid judgment, desire, and mockery. Freedom isn’t escaping the world; it’s walking among its gaze without losing myself. My strength… my peace… all reside inside me, invisible but unbreakable.”

Her dad, tipsy from early drinking, staggered forward, shouting:

“I may be drunk, but I’m your dad, damn it! Nobody touches my daughter!”

Her mom kept her distance, watching the cart almost empty, sales booming, eyes noting the mix of judgment and admiration in passersby.

Mariela reflected as she worked, each movement a lesson:

Everyone watches. Everyone judges. Everyone wants to control.

And I… I learn to stand on my own.

Every stare is a test of my endurance.

Every whisper, a challenge to know myself more deeply.

That morning, the plaza was buzzing with noise, gossip, and the smell of roasted corn and fried arepas. Mariela, wearing nothing but her small apron, stood behind her cart. The sunlight struck her skin like a silent question.

Her father had lost a foolish bet the night before, and now she was paying for his pride. A man approached—the same one who had made the bet.

“You didn’t send her to my office as promised,” he barked. “And now I see her here, half-dressed. You think this makes it right?”

Her father, still half-drunk, stepped forward.

“My daughter is doing enough. She’s working, not parading for anyone!”

Their voices rose, anger and shame swirling in the air like static. Then, by accident, the man’s shoe kicked a loose electric wire near the cart. Sparks hissed beneath the metal.

Mariela froze. Her breath caught. For a brief second, it was as if the whole world held its breath with her.

The crowd pressed closer. Some laughed, others muttered prayers.

A woman scolded loudly about “morality.”

A few police officers arrived, more curious than helpful.

And from under the cart, an old beggar crawled out, mumbling nonsense and apologizing to no one in particular.

Then came the flash—bright, blinding, electric.

A surge of light ran through the puddles beneath her bare feet.

She trembled, not in pain, but in revelation.

In that jolt, she understood everything.

Docility was not weakness. It was power disguised as surrender.

The current that entered her was not only electricity, but clarity.

When she opened her eyes, she saw her parents arguing again,

but now their anger seemed small, almost childish.

The crowd looked smaller too, their faces just masks of fear and curiosity.

Her little dog—gone long ago—appeared in her mind like a flicker of comfort, wagging its tail. She smiled faintly, as if it had licked her cheek one last time.

That night, as she pushed her cart back home,

she found her father laughing with the man he had once called his enemy.

Her mother was counting money and shaking her head.

“Did you sell everything?” the mother asked.

“Yes,” said Mariela. “But something else happened.”

Her mother looked at her, suspicious but calm.

“Then go get dressed. We’re having guests tonight.”

Mariela looked out the window.

Across the street, the same woman who had scolded her earlier was now laughing with friends, carefree and loud.

“No, mamá,” Mariela said softly. “I’m fine like this. I’ve learned something today.”

Her mother sighed. “What did you learn?”

“That strength doesn’t come from rebellion,” she replied.

“It comes from holding still—when the world tries to twist you into something else.”

And as night fell, the square where she once stood in shame now felt like part of her.

The noise, the judgment, the laughter—all echoes of a single truth:

Freedom is not loud. It’s the quiet power to stay whole when everything tries to break you.

The End.