Dad, the day I slipped and fell in front of my aunt’s room, I was about to get up and go to class, but through the crack in the door, I accidentally saw a scene that made my heart skip a beat. She was standing in the middle of the living room, her hands tightly gripping the edge of the table, her eyes red. On the table were piles of letters and bank statements. Auntie hugged her face and cried and whispered to herself:
“Many years of hard work… But she is still alone. She promised to leave him, promised not to let her mother and children suffer… Now, this is a home for her child. How can you bear it? “I have raised you so much, do you need security for your life?”
I just kept quiet. Auntie’s words were like knives in my heart. My aunt was cruel to me not because I was naughty, not because I was “not worthy” because I was always pleading in front of everyone. She was afraid – afraid that she would have nowhere to lean on, afraid that her promises would be lost, afraid that her future would be meaningless when she was old and destitute. I considered you a threat to the “safety” of my life.
Then the aunt continued, her voice hoarse like someone who had been cut off:
“They say you are the one who gives the most to her child, leaving a home for him. I have done so much, now I want certainty for you and for myself. When everyone comes to ask for it, do you know how to live?”
I heard this and tears streamed down my face. All the times he was sarcastic, deprived her of food, made her stand forever, the nights he opened the bathroom door to check—now there was a pattern: it was fear and ambition, disguised as harshness. He wasn’t just “cruel” for no reason—he was the one who was pushed into a position where he had to choose between himself and compassion, and the people who were hurt were you and your brother.
I felt both angry and sad. Angry because you and I were being paid for the adults’ worries; I loved because I knew my aunt was also terrified of losing. But whatever the reason, Dad—you and I didn’t deserve to be tortured, separated for the adults to steal our safety.
I don’t want the story to just be a misunderstanding and then everything will go on. I’m writing to let you know the truth: your cruelty to me is not just a matter of discipline or severity—it was the result of a series of worries, fears, and calculations that I could not bear.