C01
On the twentieth New Year’s Eve of my life, my parents were too busy working to spend the holiday with me. Or so I thought. I went out alone to watch the fireworks, trying to convince myself that I didn’t mind the solitude. But then, in the glowing neon of the city, I saw them. Mom and Dad. Not alone. They were with another girl. Taking her out for seafood. Buying her a million–dollar necklace. Gifting her a Lamborghini sports car.
I stood frozen as I watched them dote on her, their eyes filled with warmth, with pride, with love–the kind of love I
had never known.
“Celline, you’re closer to us than our own daughter,” Mom said, her voice trembling with emotion.
“Our favorite child,” Dad added, his eyes filled with affection.
Then Celline turned to me, her lips curling into a knowing, taunting smile.
The baked sweet potatoes in my hands suddenly lost their warmth. The scent, once sweet and comforting, turned bitter. I glanced down at my own worn–out clothes, all adding up to less than a hundred dollars and an overwhelming sourness filled my chest.
***
I ran home as if fleeing for my life, dived under my covers and sobbed until my body ached. In a fit of anguish, I grabbed my only teddy bear and threw it across the room. It landed in the corner, silent and abandoned. Just like me.
That teddy bear was the only gift I had ever received in twenty years–my eighth birthday present, stitched by my mother’s own hands. I used to hold it close every night, feeling the warmth of every thread, every stitch she had sewn, each one a testament to her love.
I remembered how she stayed up late, sewing by dim light, skipping meals, her fingers pricked and bleeding. I cherished that bear because I knew how much she had suffered to make it for me. So I never asked for anything else.
From elementary school, I picked up bottles on my way home to earn a few cents. In high school, I survived on plain white rice with water, ate the cheapest vegetarian meals and wore clothes patched up for another year even when they were falling apart.
People laughed at me, mocked me. But I didn’t care.
“We’re poor,” my parents always said. “If we can save a little, we should save a little.”
But tonight, I realized something. They weren’t poor at all. They had just been saving everything–for her.
C
Celline, their canary in a golden cage, basking in endless luxury while I starved on scraps. I didn’t sleep a wink. My pillow was soaked with tears, my heart hollowed out by betrayal.
10:28 AM
A Fake Poverty that My Parent Build for Me
“Little Feather, wake up.”
“The sun is already on your ass!”
Mom and Dad’s voices rang out, as if nothing had happened. I wiped my tears away and stepped out of my room. There they were, dressed in their usual shabby clothes, their expressions filled with warmth and familiarity.
Se
For a moment, I felt disoriented. As if what I saw last night had been just a cruel dream.
“Little Feather, we brought you some food from work,” Mom said, handing me a lunchbox. “All prawns and crabs, your favorite!”
In the past, I would have squealed with joy, kissed her cheek and rushed to heat up some rice. But this time, I stayed still. I remembered how, just yesterday, they took her out for seafood. How many years had I been eating her leftovers without realizing it?
“Look, sugar cookies! Especially sweet, just like my good daughter.” Dad grinned, pulling out a handful of cookies from his pocket.
I had always treated these cookies like treasures, eating them slowly, savoring the warmth they represented. Now, all I could think was Celline probably didn’t want them, so they gave them to me instead.
Noticing my silence, Mom wrapped an arm around me, her fingers brushing my cheek. “Little Feather, you’re acting strange today.”
Her eyes scanned my face, her brows furrowing. “Why are your eyes so red? Are you sick?”
Sick? I had cried all night. My eyes were swollen, my vision still blurry.
“Let’s go, I’m taking you to the hospital.” Dad didn’t even sit down. He hadn’t taken a sip of hot tea before he was already moving, already worried. They had always been like this. Always caring. Always gentle.
I remembered another winter night, years ago. I had a fever and the cold rain poured outside. My dad had carried me on his back and ran through the storm to the hospital. I never got wet. But he was drenched to the bone, shivering from the cold, yet still whispering, “Are you feeling better? Does it hurt?”
I had loved that man with all my heart. That same man who had deceived me for twenty years.
