“Stop making excuses! You’re my child, don’t I know all your little tricks?”
"Are you trying to make me miserable? You won’t be happy until you drive me to death, will you?"
“Get out of here! Get out of my house right now!”
Dad quickly stood up and helped my angry Mom back to her room. "Alright, alright, don’t be upset. The child doesn’t understand. Don’t mind her."
My face felt hot, as if the warmth from Mom's hand was still there.
The certificate of recognition that Mom had just stepped on now lay quietly on the floor.
I stared at it closely, tears running down my face. My heart felt like it was being tightly squeezed by a big hand, the pain so strong I could hardly breathe.
I lived like this for eighteen years, yet each time, I still felt sad.
When I was three, I had just started kindergarten. On my first day, Dad came to pick me up.
Just when I got home that day, my mother was in the kitchen, pressing a knife against her neck.
"Who gave you permission to pick her up?! She’s more important to you than me, isn’t she?"
"Then I should just die and give you and your daughter the space you want!"
That day, Mom scared everyone, even me, a three-year-old child at that time.