From that day on, every kid in kindergarten had someone waiting to pick them up. I was the only one who always went to and from school alone, no matter if it rained or shone.
Wiping my tears, I picked up the certificate of recognition and went back to my room.
At six in the evening, I walked into the dining room for our usual dinner. The moment they saw me, the cheerful mood at the table turned cold.
Mom shot me a cold look and my grandparents didn’t even glance my way. Dad gave me an apologetic look but quickly turned his eyes away.
I forced a small smile.
Dad, who was only a son-in-law, had married into Mom’s family and I understood how hard that was for him.
When I reached the table, just as I expected, there was no bowl or utensils for me. So I served myself and sat down alone, at the farthest spot from everyone.
For years, no one ever called me to dinner, afraid it would upset Mom. I could only go to the dining room alone at dinner time and eat under everyone’s cold eyes.
In high school, I often stayed late for extra classes and evening study sessions.
In our family, keeping leftovers wasn’t a habit; every bit of food that remained was thrown away. No one, not even Dad, ever saved anything for me.
During my three years of high school, I almost never had dinner.
Skipping so many meals, along with the constant tension at the table, had already ruined my stomach.
Still, I kept showing up at dinner time every day, because if I hadn’t, I would’ve starved long ago.
Everyone at the table acted like I didn’t exist. I didn’t even dare lift my spoon and fork, scared that Mom would get angry again.
Just as Mom got up to pour herself some water, Dad quietly placed a few vegetables into my bowl.
When I looked up, he gave me a quick wink, as if telling me to eat more.
But before I could move, the bowl in front of me disappeared.
A moment later, the rice and vegetable leaves, mixed with oil, were dumped all over my head. A single green leaf hung from my forehead. Imagine how foolish I must have looked.
Mom’s screams and shouts exploded in my ears. "Kevin! Why did you give food to that bitch? Are you trying to kill me?"
"You’ve been fooled by her! Do you want me dead to make you happy?"
"If you don't want me to have a good life, then neither will you!"
In an instant, Mom flipped the dining table, sending plates and bowls crashing to the floor. The broken pieces of porcelain and food hurt my eyes.
Dad rushed to stop her. "Oh, honey, what’s wrong with you?"
"Okay, okay, I was wrong, I was wrong. Don’t be mad. I won’t do it again."
Dad’s surrender finally eased her anger a little. However, that anger didn’t fade; it just turned toward me.
Mom turned and looked at me, slapping me hard across the face. "You little bitch! You come home and start flirting with your dad already? Trying to take him from me?"
"I should’ve never given birth to you! You’re nothing but bad luck! I can’t stand the sight of you!"
Mom looked straight at me and it felt like she wanted to tear me apart. It was the same all over again.
Whenever Dad showed me even the smallest bit of care, Mom would lash out with anger and accusations.
During my first final exams in first grade, I scored 100 on both tests.
Excited, I ran home with both papers, holding mine with a perfect high score above my head.
