I always thought siblings should be treated equally.
Which was why whenever my mother bought me a little dress, I would ask her to pick out something for my little brother, too.
When my father bought me a new backpack, I insisted that my brother should also get one.
Even when we had cake, I urged my parents to buy several different flavors—whatever I had, my brother should have too.
My kindergarten teacher always taught us about fairness and I never forgot that.
Still, my parents didn't seem to agree.
Everything my brother wore, used, or ate was handed down from others. Especially that backpack, it wasn't pretty at all and had a design I'd only ever seen on TV.
My father said it was a second-hand from my cousin. That's when I learned a new word, such as 'second-hand'.
Once, I offered to swap my own small backpack for that ugly one, but my father flew into a rage.
He shouted, "How can you be so selfish? You already have one, you've had enough, but you still want to take your brother's."
Now, I vaguely understand.
My father wasn't angry because I wanted to swap backpacks. It was because my brother's backpack was more expensive.
Later, my mother finished cooking and set the food on the table. The three of them immediately sat down to eat.
My mother glanced out the window, looking a little hesitant. "How about we call her in to eat? She probably knows she was wrong by now."
My father took a sip of wine, his eyes full of displeasure. "Call her in for what? If she doesn't come out herself, it means she's not hungry."
Then he added, "She must have heard all the noise you made cooking. She's just sulking."
Hearing that, my mother also grew angry. "She has the nerve to sulk?"
Without another word, she placed my bowl of rice in front of the kitten.
That bowl was a matching set for my brother and me. We each had one and I loved it the most.
I panicked. "Mom, I'm not throwing a tantrum. I want to eat too. Don't give my bowl to the kitten. That's a matching set for my brother and me."
I reached for it, but the kitten, possessive of its food, bared its teeth and meowed at me.
My father grew irritable and furious. "Shut up! Stop meowing! Keep it up and I'll throw your food away!"
The kitten ignored him completely, meowing even louder.
Drunk and enraged, he grabbed the broom leaning by the door and started whipping the kitten.
Hearing the kitten's pitiful cries, watching my father smash the porcelain bowl into shards with each blow, I dared not utter a sound.
My father must still be angry with me. That's why he's taking it out on the cat.
I didn't dare speak, quietly crouching beside the kitten.
The family didn't mention my name again until they finished their meal.
After dinner, they all went out for a walk.
I thought if I cleaned up the bowls, my parents wouldn't be mad at me anymore. But when I reached for the bowls, my hand passed right through them. It was so strange.
I stood there blankly at the table for a while, not understanding why.
The kitten, barely alive from the beating, climbed onto the table and started eating the leftovers. Completely forgetting the earlier beating, the kitten smashed several bowls on the floor as it moved.
"No, no, Mom and Dad will be angry!" I screamed.
With shards of porcelain scattered everywhere, the kitten fled the scene.
When my parents returned and saw the mess under the table, they were even angrier.
"That brat Stella! We didn't call her for dinner and she dared to come out and smash bowls!"
"She's been so rebellious all day!"
I hurriedly explained that I didn't do it; the kitten did.
