My father died when I was four. My mother left to find work far away, and I was sent to live with my uncle.
I stayed for five years.
One afternoon, my cousin Lily Abbott and I went out to buy steamed buns. On the way, Lily spotted a hair clip at a street vendor's stall. She took two dollars from the bun money to buy it.
The moment we stepped through the door, before I could say a single word, my uncle noticed the change was short.
Two dollars. That's all it took.
His fists came down on me like a storm.
"I feed you! I clothe you! And now you steal from me?"
"Where's the money? Tell me, or I'll beat you to death!"
I was nine years old. Against a grown man's fists, I couldn't fight back. I couldn't even speak.
When he tired himself out, he dragged me into the storage room.
"You're not coming out until you tell me where that money went!"
The door slammed shut. Darkness swallowed me whole.
Blood pooled at the back of my throat. With the last of my strength, I fumbled for my phone watch and dialed my mother's number.
"Mom..." My voice came out broken. "Can you come see me?"
"I miss you."
1.
She sounded impatient.
"Didn't I tell you already? I'm busy with work. Just behave at your uncle's house and focus on your studies."
"If I don't earn money, how am I supposed to take care of you? Can't you be more understanding?"
My throat burned. "Mom, please. Please just come see me."
Silence.
It stretched so long I thought she'd hung up.
Then, finally—
"Fine."
The line went dead.
I pressed the phone watch to my chest, stroking its cracked screen as tears splashed onto the glass.
It was the only gift she'd ever given me.
I don't know how much time passed. Each breath grew heavier than the last.
The storage room door flew open. My uncle, Aunt Melissa Whitney, and Lily stood in the doorway, their figures black against the light. I couldn't make out their faces.
My uncle's voice dripped with disgust.
"What are you still lying there for? Trying to look pitiful? For who?"
"You've got some nerve. I put a roof over your head, food in your belly—and you steal from me?"
My head spun. I wanted to say something, anything, but the words wouldn't come.
Every month, my mother sent three thousand dollars to my uncle. My school fees and book money were paid separately, directly.
Since I was five years old—barely tall enough to reach the stove even standing on a stool—I had cooked every meal for this family. Washed every piece of clothing. I even looked after Lily, who was only a year younger than me.
And still, I was never allowed at the dinner table. I ate cold leftovers, crouched in the corner of the kitchen.
Aunt Melissa's shrill voice cut through the haze.
"Why are you even wasting your breath on her? I've told you a hundred times—she's an ungrateful little wretch."
"Look at that face. Acting like she's the victim."
"She should be thanking us. Without us, she'd have starved to death on the street."
My uncle's tone grew colder.
"Blanche Fletcher, don't you play dead with me."
"And wipe that look off your face. I'm your uncle—your mother's own brother. I could beat you to death and no one would say a word!"
Lily popped her gum, looking down at me like I was something stuck to the bottom of her shoe.
"Come on, Dad. Why are we even bothering with her?"
"She hasn't made dinner and I'm starving. Let's just go out to eat."
The moment Lily spoke, my uncle's face transformed. The rage melted away, replaced by doting warmth.
"Oh, my poor baby's hungry? Daddy will take you out right now. What do you want to eat?"
