She stormed to the wardrobe and began yanking out my clothes, throwing them to the floor with wild abandon.
"You're dreaming!" she shouted.
Her face flushed with rage, eyes brimming with tears of anger rather than sorrow. She didn't stop there. After scattering my clothes, she dashed into the bathroom and returned holding an eyebrow razor. Without hesitation, she slashed at my shirts—blade after blade, muttering curses between clenched teeth.
"You think just because you raised me, I owe you something? You eat our food, wear our clothes and still dare show attitude?!"
She raised her voice further, the words seething through gritted teeth. "You think you're so great, right? Then don't wear what Mom bought you. Don't eat the food from this house. Just get out. Get out!"
Her little body trembled from the force of her rage, her hands cutting wildly as if trying to erase every trace of me.
I stood still, watching her without saying a word. My fingers curled slightly at my sides, but I made no move to stop her.
Gradually, her furious face began to blur in my vision, overlapping with the soft, helpless face of a baby from ten years ago.