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Mom said my brother, born in the city, was the smart one, and I, born in the countryside, was the fool.
In grade school I brought home an award certificate. My brother didn't.
Mom muttered to herself:
"That can't be right."
The next day at school, my workbooks were gone, and I had to stand in the corner all day.
When I got home, the only explanation was one line:
"Mom's been decluttering."
After that, I was always losing things.
Study notes, award certificates, my exam admission ticket.
Every time I asked her, she only said:
"I'm decluttering."
When the college admissions exam scores were posted, I was the state's top scorer.
Mom said nothing. She looked at my brother's final-exam total of 186 across all subjects, and sank into thought.
I thought Mom had changed.
Instead, right before the semester started, my college acceptance letter went missing.
Mom said:
"I'm decluttering. I threw out all the useless things."
Everything of mine was useless.
So, Mom, am I a useless thing too?
...
I start school tomorrow, and my acceptance letter is gone.
I knocked on her bedroom door:
"Mom, I'll be more useful once I'm in college."
"Could you—"
Before I could finish, Mom picked up her car keys and walked out.
She didn't glance at me once. She slammed the door hard behind her.
Watching her back, I swallowed the rest of my words.
Could you give me back my acceptance letter?
Once I'm useful, could you spare me even a little of your attention?
The first day Mom said she was decluttering, I looked the word up online:
Throw out the useless things to make life lighter.
So Mom threw out my textbooks and my homework because my things were useless?
If one day I became useless, would Mom throw me out too?
I tried to make myself useful.
But after I became first in my grade, she threw out even more.
Mom thought I was useless, so I would be a little more useful.
Then maybe she'd give my acceptance letter back.
I started cleaning the house.
I wiped the tables three times and mopped the floors three times.
I scrubbed all of my brother's sneakers, and organized Mom's makeup too.
I cleaned every window and watered all the potted plants.
When I finished, I crouched by the door and waited for Mom to come home.
The sky outside went dark, and she still hadn't picked my brother up from his tutoring class.
A part of me envied him.
Since third grade, Mom had stopped picking me up from school.
That day it was pouring rain. On the way home, Mom asked me my midterm score.
Carefully, I answered. Ninety-nine.
Then she asked my brother. Sixty-two.
Mom slammed on the brakes, her face cold, and said to me:
"Get out."
I gripped the straps of my backpack:
"Mom, I'll get a perfect score next time, I promise."
Mom pulled over to the side of the road, got out, and opened the back door.
She grabbed my arm and dragged me out of the car.
The rain was coming down hard, and I was soaked the moment I was out the door.
I begged her, crying:
"Mom, I'll get a perfect score next time, I promise. Don't leave me here."
In the struggle, Mom's bracelet fell off.
My brother had braided it by hand, and Mom always wore it.
I crouched down and picked it up.
When I looked up, Mom was starting the car.
I ran to the window and stood on my toes to knock on it:
"Mom, your bracelet fell off."
Mom didn't hear. The car shot forward, and I was left behind on the roadside.
I scrambled up and ran after it:
"Mom, your bracelet fell, do you still want it?"
The car went faster and faster, and I couldn't keep up.
Tears mixed with the rain.
Mom, do you still want me?
I held my backpack against my chest so the textbooks and test papers wouldn't get wet.
But by the time I got home, the books had turned to pulp.
"If you hadn't picked up the bracelet your brother made, I'd be done having you as a son from this day on."
"If you ask me, you're the one in this house that most needs decluttering. Go live with whoever you want!"
I stood there in my soaked clothes, clutching my backpack, at a loss.
"Country-born, all right. Your own head doesn't work, fine, but you have to drag other people down too!"
"From now on you get yourself to and from school. Don't count on me to pick you up!"
"Better yet, let some trafficker snatch you off the street. One less headache for me!"
