My mother approached me too. I thought she might offer some comfort, but instead she snapped impatiently, “Lori, ever since you came back, this house hasn't known peace. What exactly are you trying to stir up?”
“I've already said it—I want my own separate household registration book.”
My father slammed his cup down on the table. "Lori, there's a limit to everything. Stop interrupting your eldest sister's meal! Can't you just let your younger sister have her way? Go back to your room!"
Everything revolved both around the eldest sister and the younger sister. The cold, damp rain of my childhood had soaked through to my twenty-fourth year.
Finally, I roared like a madwoman, “Why does she get to be called Alexia? Why does she get to be called Alyssa? Why am I the only one called Lori? Why do I have to be called Lori? Why didn't you take me when I said I wanted to change my name?”
My mother even laughed when she heard this, as if she found it utterly amusing.
The shame of my name has haunted me from childhood to my twenty-fourth year and I still could not reconcile with it.
Lori—what a ridiculous, arbitrary name.
The warmth I once felt for my family had long vanished from my eyes. “Why, when both my eldest sister and I were scalded by steam, did only she receive professional treatment in the hospital while I suffered at home?!”
My mother stopped laughing.
“Dad, do you even know what I majored in for my undergraduate degree? Or what I studied in graduate school?”
When it came time to fill out college applications, my father—the most educated person in the family—paid someone to secure a good vocational school spot for my older sister. When it was my turn, he dismissed it, saying, “It doesn't matter where you go.”
My outburst provoked the patriarchal authority in the house. My father stepped forward and slapped me across the face.
“Who gave you the right to exist? I can do whatever I want! Think you're better than me now?”
Alexia clutched me tightly. “Dad, she's just upset. She's twenty-four—why hit her?”
My father snarled with disgust, “Get out if you want! Raising you all these years, paying for your education—and this is the thanks I got?! Want your own household registration? Want to fend for yourself? Go ahead!”
He grabbed my arm, trying to drag me out the door. I wrenched my hand free. “No need for your help. I can walk myself.”
As I shut the door, I could still hear my father cursing me from inside.
I swore I’d never cry over this pathetic family bond again.
This place had never felt like home to me—it's a prison.
My only relief is that during my summer part-time job, I didn't foolishly hand over every penny to my mother to save for me.
Those savings gave me the courage to leave home for good.
The very next morning at the hotel, my mother called, “Your father's calmed down now. You know his temper. Come home tonight and apologize. You silly child—who would ever despise their own name?”
She was still laughing.
She didn't know that hearing her laughter felt like being moved back to my most emotionally vulnerable years, when people mocked me for the name Lori.
Alexia took the call. “Lori, don't hold a grudge against Mom and Dad. They're getting old. You know Dad has asthma and Mom's had back problems these past few years. You're their flesh and blood—who else would they love? Family grudges don't last overnight.”
“Alexia, there's no such thing as ‘flesh and blood’ or not. They treat you like their own daughter.” I hung up.
To me, Alexia was the person who made me feel utterly unnecessary in this world.
Back when my dad would get drunk at family gatherings during the New Year, he’d often say, “Alexia and Alyssa are good kids. My family’s future depends on these two making something of themselves.”
