Entering the snack shop, my nephew dashed off like a wild horse, slipping from my hand and grabbing things everywhere.
Soon, he filled a whole basket and went to the counter. Many of the items were pricey, and he barely ate them anyway.
“Hello, that’s 1,360 dollars in total. Do you have a membership?” the cashier asked warmly.
Seeing only 800 dollars left in my WhatsApp balance, I crouched down and said gently,
“Jack, Auntie’s short on money today. Can we put some back?”
To reassure him, I even showed him my balance. I thought he’d understand, but he instantly threw a tantrum. “No! These are my favorites—I want them all! If you don’t buy them, I’ll tell Dad you’re mean!”
Frustrated, I took out a box of macarons from the basket.
“You don’t even like these. Can you put them back?”
He quickly snapped, “Those are my classmates’ favorites! You can’t put them back!”
I glanced at the price—nine tiny macarons for nearly two hundred dollars.
I said firmly, “If your classmate likes them, let him buy them himself. I don’t have that much today. Put them back, or we’re not buying anything!”
He burst into tears and ran out shouting,
“I’ll tell Dad you’re stingy! You promised to buy snacks and broke your word!”
I apologized to the cashier and rushed after him with my daughter.
But he was gone. The shop was three stops from home. Worried he’d get lost, I searched under the blazing sun, my daughter in tow, but couldn’t find him.
Finally, I texted my mom, “Mom, is Jack home yet?”
After a long while, she replied, “He’s home.”
Relieved, I finally relaxed.
But as soon as I entered the house with my daughter, a teacup flew toward me.
I couldn’t dodge. It smashed into my head, sharp pain bursting as blood streamed down my forehead.
My brother sat on the sofa, glaring.
My nephew stood beside him, sticking out his tongue smugly. He mouthed, “Serves you right!”
My mother was in the kitchen, and my father sat opposite with a magnifying glass, pretending not to see.
My daughter, frightened, whispered, “Mom, does it hurt?” Then, clenching her fists, she ran to my brother. “Uncle, what right do you have to hit my mom?”
Before he could reply, my nephew rushed up and shoved her hard in the chest.
“This is our house! You’re just a little girl—don’t yell here!”
“So what if he hit your mom? She’s a meanie! My mom said you two are useless nobodies!”
Rage surged through me. I rushed over and covered my daughter’s ears, shielding her from his vile words.
Then I glared at my nephew and scolded him,
“How dare you talk like that? Where are your manners?”
My brother shot up instantly.
Before he could swing, a powerful blow struck me from behind.
My already bleeding head slammed against the coffee table.
The room spun wildly.
Everything doubled—I might have a concussion.
When my vision steadied, I saw it clearly—
it was my father who had hit me.
He had dropped his newspaper and rushed at me just as I was scolding my nephew.
