They snatched up the crushed chocolate crumbs, squeaking.
Jacob shrieked and threw himself into Mom’s arms.
“Mom! There are rats!”
Mom grabbed a slipper and hurled it at me.
“This is your fault, you worthless brat! You brought the rats in!”
Then she hugged Jacob tightly, speaking in soft, soothing tones:
“Don’t be afraid, Jacob. Smart little boys know rats only go after filthy things and low-lives. We’ll never be like her.”
I watched them cautiously.
From as early as I could remember, I had longed for affection like that.
But she had never once treated me that way.
I didn’t even know why she hated me so deeply.
“Are you deaf? Can’t you see your brother is scared?”
“Hurry up and kill those rats!”
“If you can’t get rid of them, you don’t get to eat tonight!”
But my house had always been like it was built on top of a rat’s nest—there was no way to kill them all.
Her words only meant she didn’t want me to eat.
I chased the rats with a broom, but they darted into the walls and rice jar. I couldn’t catch them.
Having not eaten since yesterday morning, I grew dizzy from hunger. I nearly fainted.
Mom only smirked coldly.
“Useless. You might as well starve.”
She always kept her word when it came to tormenting me.
So that night, I went without food.
Counting from yesterday’s breakfast, I had starved for a full day and night—my only taste of food being that half bite of chocolate.
The gnawing hunger drove me to the kitchen early the next morning.
I tried to heat up the bowl of rotten stew.
Just as I lit the stove, Mom stormed in and slapped me hard.
“So young and already greedy for comfort? You even want to eat warm food? Wasting gas!”
“You’re lazy, aren’t you? Eat it cold!”
I was crushed with humiliation, but as a child, I had no power to argue.
Yesterday she had told me to heat it up, but today she forbade it.
If I argued, she’d prick my mouth with a needle, calling me a liar.
With no choice, I curled up in the corner and forced down the icy, rotten stew until my stomach twisted in agony.
Soon I was vomiting and writhing in pain.
Mom kicked me where I lay.
“All this fuss just because you didn’t get chocolate? Pretending to be sick over leftovers—who do you think you’re fooling?”
Sweating and trembling, I begged:
“Mom, I’m not pretending. I really hurt. Please take me to the hospital. I don’t want to die…”
She looked down coldly.
“What do you think you are, some rich princess? Going to the hospital costs money!”
“When we were kids, we never went to the hospital!”
“If you’re really sick, you just tough it out. Kids who survive get stronger and won’t get sick again!”
But I couldn’t tough it out.
My hands and feet shook, my vision darkened.
Instead of helping, she ordered:
“Don’t lie there! Get up and mop the floor!”
“Move your body, get the blood flowing, and you’ll get better faster!”
She yanked my bony arm, dragging me to the bucket.
“Children need to learn hard work from a young age. Today you’ll clean the whole house as your reward!”
