My mother made a move to chase after me, but my father held her back. His voice carried to the door. "How did I raise such a thing? He is simply a misfortune to this family!"
*Misfortune.* The word branded itself into my mind.
Since I was little, I was "immature" because I believed that suffering losses was a virtue. I suffered alongside them, time and again. During the New Year, my classmates wore brand-new outfits while I played in threadbare clothes. My parents would rather donate their entire salary to remote mountain villages than buy their own son a new jacket.
In middle school, I placed third in the entire grade. They promised me a laptop. What I eventually received was an empty shell; the internal components had been stripped out and given to my cousin because "Uncle's child is going to college and needs it more."
They could be public-spirited saints; I didn't oppose that. But could they not have raised their own child first?
From age three until college, I practically lived at my grandparents' house. My parents had time, yet they always found excuses, claiming they were "too busy." Growing up in that environment, loneliness became my only constant companion.