Or maybe being born was my original sin.
Because she gave birth to me, Mom's back was ruined. When it flared up, the pain made her lose control of her bladder and bowels. She'd be paralyzed in bed for days.
Treating her illness drained every penny we had. It still didn't fix the root problem.
To take care of her, Dad quit his decent job and started hauling cement at a construction site near the hospital.
For as long as I could remember, I'd known the taste of poverty.
The food at home was so scarce I was severely malnourished—skinny and stunted, living like a little rat.
Everything I wore was hand-me-downs from relatives.
Oversized clothes. Shoes that didn't fit. And an inferiority complex branded into my bones. That was my childhood.
In middle school, my body started developing.
The first time I got my period, I went to Mom, heart pounding, to ask for money for pads.
She was groaning in pain in bed, but she still insisted on giving me the money set aside for her medicine.
Drenched in sweat, gasping, she said, "Even if it kills me, I won't let my child suffer."
I cried from guilt, covered the bloodstain on my pants, and ran back to school.