Whenever I went to my parents to complain, they always said the same thing:
"Didn't you say you wanted a little brother to play with? He's still young. He doesn't know any better. You need to be more understanding."
They'd used that line to shut me down through my entire childhood and adolescence. They were still using it when they took my life just before I turned eighteen.
So this time, I stared at the room full of baby supplies without a flicker of expression and pointed. "You've already decided to have it. Why even bother asking me?"
For a split second, both of them went quiet, caught off guard.
I said nothing. I turned around, picked up my battered old toy car, and headed upstairs.
There had always been a large, bright room on the second floor that sat empty. My parents said it was the guest room.
Only now did it click. It had never been for guests. It was for the brother who hadn't been born yet.
Back in my own cramped little room, the tears finally came.
I'd spent all those years swallowing my pride, enduring surgery after surgery through blinding pain, and they still believed it was my duty.
Every time I was scared, every time I begged for a moment to recover and hoped my mother would comfort me, all I got was a lecture. Sometimes worse.
"If you hadn't said you wanted a little brother, I never would've had a second child! He's here now. What makes you think you can just ignore him?"
My fists clenched so hard my knuckles went white. I made up my mind. I was getting out of this hellhole.
I went over everything, piece by piece, until I finally accepted the truth my parents had never loved me.
From the day I was born, I'd never received any special affection. My mother's entire philosophy of raising me boiled down to four words: behave, save money, obey. Don't be difficult. Take care of the family.
So I never dared ask for anything. Except once, when I was three, crying my eyes out over a toy car at a street stall.
My mother slapped me across the face right there in public and left me standing at the stall alone. I cried the entire morning.
It was my father who finally bought it. He crouched down and spoke to me in that grave, measured tone of his:
"Your mother doesn't work so she can take care of you. I support this family all by myself, and it's hard. That toy car costs as much as a pound of braised pork. Don't blame your mom. She just wants you to be a good boy."
I was three. I didn't understand anything. The moment I heard those words, I thought we were so poor we couldn't afford to eat. I sobbed and apologized to my mother, promising I would never ask for another toy again.
But even back then, my mother's dresses cost over a thousand dollars each. The cigarettes my father smoked every day were top-shelf brands.
After my little brother was born, new toys showed up every single month.
Our family was never going to starve because of a toy car that cost a few bucks.
They simply couldn't bring themselves to spend money on me. Couldn't bring themselves to waste love on me, either.
Sure enough, the very next morning, my mother knocked on my door.
She put on a pained expression. "Desi, Mommy has your little brother in her tummy now, so I can't really take care of you. Could you go stay at Grandma's for a few days?"
I stared at her, cold and unblinking. "A few days. Really?"
My bluntness caught her off guard. She faltered for a moment, but recovered.
"Of course. Once Mommy's feeling better, I'll come bring you home."
I didn't look at her again. I turned around, grabbed my little backpack, and stuffed in the handful of clothes I owned and my one toy car.
"Let's go."
She was the one sending me away. But the second I got in the car, the tears started falling down her cheeks. "Let Daddy drive you. It'll upset Mommy too much to watch you leave."
Anyone watching would've thought she adored me.
The truth was simpler. She felt guilty.
After all, the "few days" trip was really going to last at least a year.
The car drove from the highway onto a narrow, winding mountain road. Eventually, the familiar run-down village came into view.
