I called my father in tears. He picked up, said he was at work, and hung up before I could finish a sentence.
That first month, still lost and scared in an unfamiliar place, I called him five times. He answered twice. Each call lasted a few seconds.
By the second month, he'd forgotten to top up the smartwatch plan. The phone couldn't dial out at all.
But back then, I thought I'd broken it myself. I hid in a corner and cried alone, blaming myself, counting the days until Mom and Dad would come take me home.
I waited. And waited. And waited.
A year and a half later, my father finally had my uncle bring me back to the city on one of his trips in.
The moment I walked through the door, my mother pinched her nose. "Desmond, why do you reek of duck droppings? Did you never bathe out there?"
I was six. The shame hit me like a wall. I ducked my head, wishing I could disappear.
Next to my brother, plump and pale as a dumpling, I looked like a scrawny little monkey, skin yellowed from over a year of sun. Not exactly lovable.
But whose fault was that? She was the one who'd had my father ship me off to the countryside in the first place.
This time, I knew what to expect.