Yet I couldn't feel the warmth and safety I remembered from childhood.
We entered the hospital room.
Mom immediately pulled me into her arms, her delicate hands stroking my frostbitten, cracked, rough cheeks.
Her eyes were red from crying as she blamed my father. "This is all your fault—investing blindly with those people, racking up all that debt. Otherwise, why would our daughter have suffered like this?"
Ten years later, when we reunited at the school gate, she had held me just as tightly.
She had cried just like this.
I had almost believed every word.
"Honey, what are you standing there for? Give our daughter that beef and rib congee."
Mom shot Dad a look and pointed at the thermos on the table.
I froze.
That thermos was the one I had just dropped outside the hospital room door.
"It was left over from the patient next door. I couldn't bear to eat it myself."
Mom wiped her tears and smiled.
I was speechless.
They gave Cynthia every luxury.
But they picked up dirty congee from the floor to feed me.
And acted so loving while doing it.
Was I really that worthless in their eyes? Did I not deserve even one decent thing?