Aunt Lisa looked at me, sick and barely standing, still being forced to cook for them. Her eyes brimmed with tears.
She was wealthy, but only comfortably so—she couldn’t possibly hand over that kind of money.
I knew she wanted to help, but she was powerless.
As I cooked, I swayed on my feet.
Dad sat outside, calculating his gambling money, and shouted into the kitchen:
“Hurry up! You trying to starve your old man? How did I end up with such a useless kid?”
Then he bellowed at Mom:
“You useless woman! Why are there still so many rats in this house? What if they bite Jacob?”
The sound of crashes followed.
I didn’t need to look—I knew Dad was hitting Mom again.
Terror gripped me.
I sped up my work, but my hands trembled uncontrollably.
By mistake, I grabbed the wrong container and poured it into the rice jar.
When I looked closer, my heart stopped.
It was the rat poison Mom had warned me about.
Panic nearly broke me.
If they found out I had ruined a whole jar of rice, they’d beat me to death.
In those few seconds, I imagined every possible way I might die.
Just then, Mom’s furious voice came from outside:
“You little brat! What’s taking you so long in there? Want your dad, your mom, and your brother to starve?”
“With laziness like yours, what future could you possibly have?”
I froze, my hands still in the rice.
She stormed in and pressed the hot pan straight onto my hand.
Instantly, blisters erupted, and I screamed in agony.
From outside, Dad shouted impatiently:
“Shut up, jinx! Stop yelling!”
I bit back my cries.
All I could do was watch as Mom, smiling, carried the food to the table.
They ate happily, as if they were the real family.
And me…
I was nothing but a dog left at their feet.
When they were done, Mom sneered at me:
“There are leftovers in the fridge. Why didn’t you eat those?”
“Trying to live in comfort at your age? Spoiled already?”
“Until the leftovers are gone, you’re not getting any of this food. Understand? Wasting is a sin.”
Satisfied, they burped and fed the scraps of meat and fish to the dog.
The cramps in my stomach made it impossible to eat. My hands still bled freely.
Mom forbade me to use medicine.
“Why waste it on a scratch like that?” she said.
The searing pain kept me awake all night.
Over and over, my mind screamed the same thought:
I needed to leave. I needed to live with Aunt Lisa.
If only…
I wasn’t their child.
If only…
I could be hers.
At least with Aunt Lisa, I’d get a hot meal. I’d be allowed to see a doctor.
From the other room, their snores rose—deep and satisfied, as if torturing me was their nightly entertainment.
That night, a dark thought coiled around me like a snake:
If my family no longer existed… maybe Aunt Lisa could finally take me away.
By dawn, that thought consumed me.
When I saw the rice I had washed over and over, the idea reached its peak.
I told myself:
Mom always taught me—save every penny, never waste anything.
Throwing away this whole pot of rice would be such a waste…
