My fists clenched so hard my knuckles went white. I made up my mind. I was getting out of this hellhole.
I went over everything, piece by piece, until I finally accepted the truth my parents had never loved me.
From the day I was born, I'd never received any special affection. My mother's entire philosophy of raising me boiled down to four words: behave, save money, obey. Don't be difficult. Take care of the family.
So I never dared ask for anything. Except once, when I was three, crying my eyes out over a toy car at a street stall.
My mother slapped me across the face right there in public and left me standing at the stall alone. I cried the entire morning.
It was my father who finally bought it. He crouched down and spoke to me in that grave, measured tone of his:
"Your mother doesn't work so she can take care of you. I support this family all by myself, and it's hard. That toy car costs as much as a pound of braised pork. Don't blame your mom. She just wants you to be a good boy."