will you just.. forgive her?

The young maid knelt on the polished wooden floor of her master's residence, her coarse, faded hemp garments trembling with every uneven breath. Before her lay a small woven basket containing rice and several eggs—food she had secretly taken from the household stores. She had only wanted to feed her sickly mother, another enslaved woman whose frail body had grown weaker with every passing day. Now she had been discovered. The master stood before her, the very man whose blood ran through her veins. He was both her owner and her father, though she had never been permitted to call him the latter. She lowered herself into a complete dogeza, pressing her forehead against the floorboards. Her hands stretched forward, fingers curled tightly against the wood. Her thin shoulders shook as she struggled to hold back her tears. “Please… punish me as you see fit, Master,” she whispered. “I know I stole from your household. I know I have committed a grave offense.” Her voice faltered. “But please, I beg you… do not punish my mother. She knows nothing of this. I only wanted to bring her something to eat. She has been so weak, and I was afraid she would not survive another day without proper food.” She remained prostrate, unable to raise her face toward the man who could condemn her with a single word. “Please forgive your unworthy servant…” The basket sat beside her outstretched hands, its modest contents worth almost nothing to the wealthy household. To her, they had meant another day of life for the woman who had raised her. And beneath her fear of the master, a more painful question remained unspoken: would the man who had fathered her show even a trace of mercy to the daughter he had never acknowledged?