Mom always said we were poor, so I had to learn to be frugal.
From as far back as I could remember, I’d never owned a single piece of new clothing. The few clothes I did have were hand-me-downs from Mom, stained with grease and grime.
I was the girl everyone at school remembered—the one whose clothes never fit, who kept to herself and who always sat near the trash cans. A complete outcast.
As I folded the clothes, loud voices echoed from outside my door. It was Mom and my brother, clearly speaking loudly on purpose so I could hear every word.
“We’re going back to our hometown tomorrow. Come on, let’s pick up your dad and then we’ll stop by the mall to buy you some new clothes. You’ll look so sharp and all the kids in the village will be jealous of you.”
Pleased with himself, my brother asked, “What about Alma? Is she coming with us?”
“No, she’s not coming. Why should we take her? Disobedient girls don’t deserve new clothes. She’d just become even more vain and selfish!”
The front door slammed shut with a loud bang.
I let out a bitter laugh. Every New Year’s, I was stuck wearing ill-fitting old sweaters and the autumn school uniform—bulky, ridiculous and completely inappropriate for winter.
If buying a warm winter coat was considered vanity, then what did it mean when my brother got several brand-name jackets at once?
That evening, as expected, my parents didn’t come home.
They were probably off enjoying a big meal together—a "special family dinner" at KFC or someplace similar.
Meanwhile, I was left with the only food in the house: a limp, leftover piece of cucumber. My stomach growled incessantly as I chugged tap water to quiet the hunger. I chewed the cucumber slowly, imagining it was a sizzling, juicy piece of fried chicken.
By the time I decided to shower and head to bed, they still weren’t back.
With the sound of water running, I tried to comfort myself. It didn’t matter. In this second chance at life, I’d already managed to escape the fate of being suffocated in a luggage compartment.
This time, my brother would be the one walking the path I had once endured. I couldn’t help but wonder how my parents would feel when that day came.
Lost in thought, I didn’t notice the bathroom door creak open until I turned around.
My dad’s enraged face filled my vision. Before I could react, the thin bamboo stick—its surface worn smooth from repeated use with saltwater—lashed across my bare skin.
“You’ve gotten bold, huh, Alma? Teaching your brother to take your place in the luggage compartment—what kind of sister does that?”
“Ah—!” I cried out as the pain seared through me.
Naked and humiliated, I scrambled around like a cornered rat, desperate to escape the blows.
“No, Dad! I’m sorry! I won’t do it again! Please, don’t hit me!”
But my dad was already too far gone, his eyes bloodshot with rage. The blows came harder and faster.
“Three days without a beating and you think you can defy me? You’re disobedient, selfish and you don’t care about your brother. Keep this up and I’ll beat you for three days straight!”
My brother clapped his hands in delight, cheering him on.
“Yes! Hit her! Harder, Dad, harder! She deserves it—this stupid girl is always asking for it!”
Scenes from the past flooded my mind—my father’s drunken rages, his merciless blows. And finally, the last memory: my lifeless body, kicked down the stairs by him, my death staged as an accident.
Why did they value my life so little? I couldn’t hold it in anymore. Reaching for the shower valve, I turned the hot water all the way up and grabbed the spray head. Boiling water, at least seventy or eighty degrees, shot straight at my dad’s face.
He screamed in agony, clutching his scalded skin. I seized the chance to grab my clothes and flee.
At the doorway, I ran into my mother. Her expression made me feel a mix of shame and heartbreak.
It was then that the last shred of hope I had for her dissolved completely.
I didn’t know what story she’d fed my dad about me behind my back, but as the fog of longing for their affection lifted, I saw things clearly for the first time.
The truth was, she and my father had always been on the same side. Whenever I disobeyed or failed to meet her expectations, they used violence to “teach me a lesson.”
