A grin spread across my father's face as he stood there. He appeased her, "Yes. Please, don't be mad, Dear. Dad’s watching.”
However, my mother did not care. She complained, “If I hadn’t paid for Mateo's studies back then, how could he be as successful as he is right now? He was born for wealth and prosperity. Looks like I made the right choice.”
My father sighed. “You can’t blame Santiago for all of that happened. You used his money to send Mateo abroad. He never really got over it.”
“We couldn’t let Mateo suffer, could we? My sister only has one son!” my mother refuted him.
I had lost count of how many times I’d heard those words. Each one was a dagger to the heart cutting deeper every time. I thought I’d grown numb to their cruelty, but it still hurt. So much that I could barely stand because the one who was supposed to study abroad … was me.
At that time, it was my mother who ripped my bank card from my hands and handed it to my aunt. The money in the card was everything that I saved since childhood from scholarships and wages from years of part-time jobs. It was meant for my future, for my graduate studies.