My first father, my biological father, was a forced marriage arranged solely by their families. Neither of my parents wanted it, but they went through with it. They were simply a married couple who managed to coexist.
A year after I was born, my father grew cold and deeply indifferent, though he never physically mistreated my mother or me. Tragically, four years into the marriage, he brought his lover home. She became a frequent visitor. My mother's face was always a smiling, welcoming mask, but I could see through it: she was playing a part, trying to appease my father and hide her real feelings beneath a thick veil of indifference.
Soon after, my mother found a lover too. She started leaving me every day, using the same thin lie I heard almost every morning: "Honey, I'm going out with some friends. Tell Father I'll come back late, okay?" And just like that, she left me.
While Father was out, Mother would bring a strange man home, ordering me to go to my room and sleep before he could see me. Her expression when she told me to leave conveyed a feeling of misery and profound dread for my very existence.
As time passed, strange furniture, expensive accessories, and new dresses kept appearing in my mother's room. I knew what it meant. It couldn't have been Father; he spent most days at work and with his mistress, often coming home late, or not at all. It must have been the man she frequented. My mother wouldn't dare work; my grandparents spoiled her far too much.
I was curious to see who my mother spent her time with, the person who made her ignore me so completely. I did the one thing I shouldn't have done. After she told me to go inside my room, I disobeyed. I crept out and stared from the top of the stairs, looking down at the first floor, next to the living room, to see who she was with today.
I thought it would have been someone nice, but it was a middle-aged man, much older than my mother. Is that what my mother likes? If I act mature she will like me again?The thought was stupid, but it was the only thing I could focus on.
I didn't stop just there; I did the same the next day, but it wasn't the same man. It was another one younger but ugly. This went on for four years until my father finally found out.
They had a really bad argument for almost a month. My father could have had another woman, but my mother couldn't? It was unfair. But at least my father had just one... After that, they didn't talk for a while until my father thought of divorcing her.
My mother, having been raised like a princess by her rich family with love and care, couldn't stand the coldness she received from my father afterward. That was what truly started her long, desperate journey: trying to replace the affection and high status with a consuming obsession for money.
That was what started my long journey with my mother.
The memories faded, leaving the stale air of my room and the throbbing ache in my head as my only reality. I pressed the back of my hand against my cheek where the bottle had hit. The pain was real, but the memory of my mother's greed and weak choices was sharper. She'd always trade safety for superficial wealth. My whole plan was based on an old lie: that she still wanted the love and care she had as a child.
I took my phone and checked the time; it was 11 a.m. Should I even try to have dinner? The thought was barely a whisper. I couldn't bear to sit at the same table with that man after what he did to me. Maybe I'll take something in the middle of the night when there's no one around.
Tomorrow I have to buy the beer, or else it could end badly, just like that time long ago. Ugh... I also have to think of the bills.
I sat down on my bed and scratched my hair, thinking of how to solve my problems. My part-time job won't help me either; it's only once or sometimes twice a week, but it has a nice pay compared to all the other part-time jobs I've seen. This is the best I can do.
I dressed the wound myself, then forced myself to lie down and sleep because another long journey back to the bar waits for me me.