"It’s not your fault. I don’t blame you. You’re both tired from work. You eat. I’m not hungry today," I said, my tone flat.
Mom and Dad exchanged a look, but I didn’t miss the flicker of disgust in their eyes.
Before, whenever they made a meal, they would always scoop the food into my bowl, saying they couldn’t finish it.
I used to feel touched and sad, thinking they were skipping meals just to keep me well-fed. Now, I knew better. They didn’t like the food. They didn’t like me.
I took a small bite, chewing through the tears that blurred my vision. But all I could taste was bitterness.
Seeing me eat, my mom sighed in relief, like she had just solved some great problem.
Then Dad’s phone alarm went off. He answered quickly, pretending it was an urgent call.
"The construction site’s rushing work before the New Year. No time for a break," he said as he grabbed his coat and stood up.
Mom followed right behind him, pulling on her cheap, patched-up cotton jacket. "We’ll stay out late setting up a stall," she said. "We need the money for your tuition next semester."