Chapter 3

I didn't know how long I'd been running. Exhausted, I crouched under a tree, hugging the doll tightly to my chest, sobbing uncontrollably.

Why did Sandra have to be so mean to me? She got so many toys this time, and I couldn't even have one doll?

Sandra was the one at fault this time, and Grandma was always fair-minded.

Grandma saw my doll was all dirty and ripped, so she promised she'd get me a new one.

But when it was time for me to leave, she still hadn't gotten me one.

The day I was about to leave, I looked at her and asked, "Grandma, what about my doll?"

Sandra grumbled something under her breath, clearly annoyed.

Grandma gave an awkward smile. "Next time, next time you come back, I'll get one for you."

Twenty years passed, and Grandma never made it up to me with that new doll.

Whenever I brought up the past, my parents just waved it away.

They said, "When you were little, we left Sandra back in our hometown while we went out to chase our careers.

"We didn't plan to have you, but we took you with us so you could have a good life. So what's wrong with giving Sandra a bit more to make up for it?"

Every time they said that, I could only manage a bitter smile.

A good life? Was it really?

When I was born, my parents' business was just starting to take off. The doctor told my mom that having an abortion would be bad for her health, so she had no choice but to keep me.

With one less person out there hustling, that meant one less paycheck coming in.

From the moment I was born, the one thing I heard most was, "You really couldn't have come at a worse time."

It was like my arrival was nothing but bad luck for them.

I was always the kid nobody wanted around.

Once I started kindergarten, my mom just left me there without a second thought. In the evenings, she hired a housekeeper to pick me up, cook dinner, and take care of me.

After making dinner, the housekeeper would put me to bed and then head out.

Sometimes I'd wake up in the middle of the night, and the whole house was empty and pitch black.

It always felt like a huge monster was hiding somewhere in the darkness, and little me could only curl up under the covers, crying helplessly.

Before my parents left, they said, "If you need us, just call us with the landline."

I rushed to dial their number, but every time, they'd either hang up in a hurry or just give me some half-hearted reply if they actually picked up.

They said, "We'll be back soon. Just go to sleep.

"Don't cause us more trouble. We're working hard to keep this family going.

"You're four now, you need to be sensible."

But Sandra, out in our hometown, got a personal escort from our grandparents every single day, and they doted on her like she was a little princess.

Whenever I tried to video call, Grandma barely had time for me before she'd hang up to tell Sandra a bedtime story and help her drift off to sleep.

The sound that haunted me most as a kid was that lonely dial tone after the call got cut off.

That cold, mechanical noise was like a voice whispering to me, "No one cares about you. No one is there for you."

I just couldn't figure out why all the other kids got picked up by their parents or grandparents, while it was always the housekeeper who came for me.

After school, the other kids got treats like cupcakes and snacks, heading home hand in hand with their families.

But me? I just tagged along behind the housekeeper, ate dinner without tasting a thing, and ended up clutching my doll, afraid of the darkness as I drifted off to sleep.

Growing up, I never really felt safe.

Bottling up all my negative feelings just made me more and more sensitive. At kindergarten, I was too scared to speak up, afraid people would think I was weird or annoying, and then nobody would want to play with me.

But the lonelier I got, the harder it was to break out of it.

It always felt like everyone was allergic to me or something, like nobody wanted to hang out with me or even come near me.

One day, I just couldn't hold it in anymore.

It was a morning when I was supposed to go to school.

No matter what, I just refused to go.

I wrapped my arms around my mom's waist, begging her, "Mom, can I stay with you? I promise I won't cry or cause any trouble. I'll be really good. I just want to be with you, please."

My mom and dad had a client meeting lined up, but I clung to them, refusing to let go.

At first, they tried to soothe me with soft words.

Mom said, "Be good, Shirley. Mom and Dad will be back tonight, okay? How about we watch cartoons together?"

I kept shaking my head and clinging to her, refusing to let go no matter what.

That was not true. They never came home before I fell asleep, and they never watched cartoons with me.

"I don't want to go to school! Let me stay with you. Play with me, please," I cried.

"Come on, be good. I will pick up a strawberry cake for you," Dad promised.

But no matter what they said, I just kept clinging to my mom for dear life, refusing to let go.

With time running out, Dad lost his patience and pulled me away from Mom. I was so little that I hit the ground hard.

"What the hell is wrong with you? We told you we've got important things to do. Why can't you just listen? Do you want me to smack you?" Dad snapped.

As he said it, he lifted his hand, eyes burning with rage.

I froze with fear, forgetting even how to cry.

Right then, to me, Dad's face was even more terrifying than any monster hiding in the darkness at night.

That was their idea of "being there for me" and "having me around".