Chapter 5

As I grew up, the thing I heard most from Dad was, "You're a worthless girl, and an ungrateful brat. One day, I'll get rid of you both."

For some reason, I became strangely fascinated by the words "ungrateful brat."

An "ungrateful brat" could take Dad down and stab Dad so that he was too scared to come home for days.

When I was about three years old, Dad stormed in, clutching a knife, yelling that he'd kill me after losing a ton of money in gambling.

Between getting killed or getting beaten, I picked the latter. I ran into Michael's room. He was as intimidating as Dad.

Dad was outside, yelling and pounding on the door, and my legs were trembling uncontrollably.

Michael looked up from his desk and shot me a frosty look.

I sobbed, begging him, "Can I stay here tonight?"

Michael paused for a moment, then replied coldly without a hint of hesitation. "No."

I gritted my teeth and clung to the wardrobe as if my life depended on it. "You... you can beat me, but I'm not leaving."

Dad was crazed from his gambling losses, totally out of control. Mom had already run off to a neighbor's place, leaving me behind. If I left the room, Dad would definitely beat me to death.

Michael stared at me for a long time, his gaze cold and unfeeling.

At last, he got up, walked to the door, and pulled it open.

I braced myself, thinking he was about to toss me out. Whatever Michael did next, I suddenly heard Dad's furious roar outside. "You little bastard, you wait."

Dad stormed off.

That night, I couldn't bring myself to leave Michael's room.

I refused to budge, curling up in the corner and staying there the whole night.

That was the first time I ever saw Michael let his guard down, at least in my memory.

Perhaps that was simply the way of human hearts. A moment of softness came once, and then it repeated itself endlessly.

Then, when I was a little over four years old, everything changed.

After beating Mom so many times, Dad finally went too far and killed her.

That night, he freaked out, bolted outside, and ended up drowning in the river.

The day Michael left our village with his backpack, Grandma, the one who was legally supposed to look after me, threatened to drown me in the pond so I could join Dad. So I ran away.

Crying as I ran through the snow, I chased after Michael for over 3 miles. I fell to the ground and my legs were bleeding all over. In the end, Michael couldn't bring himself to leave me behind.

He turned around and walked back, his gaze colder than the winter night. But he crouched down, giving me his back so I could climb on.

After that, Michael finally escaped the village, but because of me, he ended up stuck for another ten years.

I was groggy, half-asleep, when the cold night wind jolted me awake.

My mind, still drifting in dreams, snapped back to reality.

As the sky grew lighter, I headed to the cafeteria to grab some breakfast.

Carrying my bowl, I looked around for a seat. All of a sudden, my fingers went numb, my hand shaking, and the bowl slipped right out of my grip, crashing to the floor.

Bread and oatmeal went flying everywhere.

I stood there, staring blankly at the mess.

It was like that day when I couldn't hold my fork steadily.

Michael, feeling sick and running a fever, saw what happened and demanded angrily. "So you're throwing a fit because I put a little extra salt in the food? Evelyn, after all these years, what do I owe you?"

That was the first time I saw a few white hairs starting to show at Michael's head.

I wanted to tell him I was sick, but what slipped out was something else entirely. "It's so salty. I can't eat it. Your cooking is gross."

Actually, I didn't get to taste the food that day.

Michael looked at me in utter disbelief. All those feelings Michael had kept bottled up for ten years finally snapped in that moment.

Over those ten years, Michael had thought about getting rid of me more times than I could count.

He didn't care where I ended up, as long as I wasn't holding him back anymore. That was all he wanted. But whenever it came down to actually doing it, his heart would always melt a little, and he couldn't go through with it.

That time, I was the first to show I was fed up with him. In that moment, Michael saw Dad reflected in me.

He figured I didn't know how to appreciate kindness, that I wasn't worth any good treatment. So, that last shred of mercy that always kept him from being cruel was finally drowned by a surge of hatred.

Grandma had already passed away. Michael was an adult now, and he was my sole legal guardian. So, Michael went through the legal process and scraped together enough money for the Children's Home fees to send me away.

He did everything he could, no matter the cost, and finally managed to send me away for good.

I stood there, dazed, my mind wandering.

Then I dropped my gaze, staring at the oatmeal mess all over the floor, not seeing anything.

James stormed over, his face red with anger as he barked at me. "What are you making a scene for? No wonder your own brother doesn't want you. You spilled your own food, so you don't get to eat."