Dad—I have to tell you something terrible that happened
Dad, I’m scared, but I can’t hide it anymore. Every morning when I eat, my aunt tells me to plow a little rice and laughs sarcastically, “You don’t deserve to eat enough.” She even whispers in my brother’s ear, “Stay away from this person,” as if you were the trash in the house. I gritted my teeth to keep quiet, trying to swallow every grain of bitter rice without opening my mouth.
But one night, when my father was working the late night shift and the house was dark, I couldn’t sleep. I saw my younger brother crying, so I crawled downstairs. I was about to go to my room to hug him, but through the crack in the door, I saw a scene that made my heart stop beating.
My aunt stood in the living room, the yellow light shining on her cold hard face. My brother was shivering, his eyes red. He raised his hand and shouted loudly, his voice full of pressure, and pushed me towards the bed—I tried to dodge, but I slipped. I couldn’t cover myself in time. I saw you bending down and hugging your stomach, your face was pale. My aunt rushed over, her voice smiling: “Don’t joke, if you cry, there will be more things.” Then she slammed the door of my room so hard that the whole house shook.
I stood outside, my legs felt like I wanted to be scared. I wanted to rush in and hug you, I wanted to scream to call you back, but I was afraid that my aunt would know that I wasn’t in the room and punish you both. I felt both helplessness and anger – that is, because I didn’t deserve this, helpless because I was young and didn’t know what to do right to protect myself without making the situation worse.
Dad, I’m not telling you this story to make you angry or cause trouble. I’m telling you this because I need you to know the truth: the temptation to eat, the urge to stay away from me, and especially the scene that night where you used your power to scare me – all of this was more than I could bear. I was afraid that I would get hurt more, I was afraid that something worse would happen someday.
I need you to intervene. I need you to see me, to hold me, to tell me that it’s going to be okay; I need you to talk to me seriously to stop the swearing, the nights when you have to cry silently. I know you’re busy, you have responsibilities at work, but I want you to take time for the safety of both of you.
If you can’t get home right away, please let me know what you’re going to do—call your grandma, call your relatives, or at least call and beg your aunt to stop. I need a promise to keep hope alive. I’m afraid to hide this fear alone.
I’m begging you – don’t let the two of you suffer any longer. I need adults to stand up for me and for me.