My father, too worried I would dirty his beloved car, rented a beat-up truck instead. Together, they roughly threw me onto the back of that broken-down vehicle and swiftly drove me to the crematorium.
They did not even bother buying a proper urn. My ashes were carelessly stuffed into an old plastic container they had emptied of sweet potato starch. They didn’t even clean it.
If you looked closely, you could still see traces of white starch mixed in with my ashes.
And yet, my parents still felt I had wasted their time. To them, I had always been someone who did not matter.
I could never understand the reason, despite being their child, I was treated so differently from my sister and brother.
I had even suspected, at times, that I wasn’t their biological daughter. So much so, that I secretly had a DNA test done behind their backs, I was hoping I was not their biological child.
The day I received the results, I actually wished I was not related to them by blood. I thought maybe that would help me find peace.
However, when I saw the words “Confirmed biological relationship,” all my hopes shattered.