Aunt Zamara, despite her low income, always taught me not to waste food. She worked hard to raise me, and frugality was ingrained in me from a young age.
But to my biological mother, even this was repulsive.
My mother scolded me, saying I was like a reincarnated starving ghost, eating more than a pig, completely uncultured and ungraceful. She sneered and told me that if she ever took me out, I’d only humiliate her.
From that day forward, nothing I did was right in her eyes. Even when she walked past me, she would pinch her nose in disdain.
I cried in the shower, scrubbing myself over and over, hoping to wash away whatever made her hate me. But she just scoffed as she chided me disdainfully, “Yanna, no matter how much you wash, you’ll never get rid of the stench of poverty on you. It’s in your bones.”
Slap!
A sharp pain burned at the back of my head, snapping me out of my senses.
The manager stood behind me, yelling, “What are you doing? Slacking off? Do you need a beating to wake you up?”
“If you don’t finish cleaning the restroom before your shift ends, you can lick it clean instead!”
Not satisfied with just words, he kicked me hard, and I stumbled to the ground.