Do you know just how spineless parents can be? Have you ever seen people with wealth and power get pushed around and humiliated by their dirt-poor relatives? My name is Stella. My uncle is a small-town security guard, a man from the absolute bottom rung of society. My father is the chairman of a publicly traded company. My mother is the Chief of Medicine at a prestigious hospital. And yet, from 2009 to 2016, every single time I reached for food at the dinner table, my uncle would slap my hand. Four times. My parents saw it. They said nothing. This cast a long, dark shadow over my childhood. It’s why, all through middle and high school, I chose to live at a boarding school. This year, I graduated from college. I came home for a celebratory dinner. When I reached for a piece of food, my uncle raised his hand to strike me again, a grim replay of an old, familiar horror. But this time, I slammed my chopsticks right into his face. This time, I was done being silent. … To celebrate my graduation and welcome me home, my parents had invited a few relatives and friends over for dinner. “Stella, eat up. I made all your favorites,” my mother said with a warm smile, setting down the last dish, a fragrant seafood chowder. It had been so long since I’d been home, and my parents were clearly thrilled to have me back. Dad opened a bottle of expensive single-malt Scotch. “Go on, dig in. Your mother’s been in the kitchen since dawn getting ready for you.” I stared at the steaming, vibrant dishes spread across the table, a sense of unreality washing over me. So many years had passed, and the resentment I held for my family had been worn down by time, faded almost to nothing. I nodded, picking up my chopsticks to grab a piece of food. But just then, my uncle, who was sitting beside me, rapped his chopsticks sharply on the table twice. He stared at me, his face a mask of cold indifference. “Who said you could start eating?” My hand shot back as if I’d been burned, my heart instantly hammering against my ribs. To the outside world, my family was the picture of success and respectability. My father ran a successful company, and my mother was a renowned physician. It was no exaggeration to say we were powerful. My uncle, Rick, on the other hand, was a relic from a different world. All I knew was that he’d run with a gang in his youth, and in a fight that went too far, he’d killed someone. Manslaughter. He served twelve years, getting out in 2009. My mother, Eleanor, torn apart by a mix of pity and fear that he’d fall back into his old ways, brought him to the city to live with us. She even got him a job as my father’s driver. From his wedding to the birth of his children, he has been completely dependent on my mother’s charity. He’s been a fixture in our lives ever since. I was eight years old in 2009. That was when the ritual began. Every time we sat down to eat, he would slap my hand with his chopsticks. He’d always assume the posture of a disciplining elder, lecturing me with the same tired lines. Things like: “The adults haven’t even started. You dare take a bite? You think you’re better than us?” “I’m hitting you for your own good. So you don’t grow up offending people without even knowing it.” “Don’t think you can just coast on your parents’ money. You have to make your own way in this world.” I was just a kid. I didn’t understand what he meant, or why he was saying these things to me. So, I learned to wait. I wouldn’t touch my food until one of the adults had taken the first bite. But, predictably, he’d still hit me. I’d ask him, my voice trembling with unshed tears, why he still hit me. He wouldn’t answer directly, probably because he couldn't find a new fault. Instead, he’d tap his empty plate. “Get me some food.” Other times it would be, “Bring me a glass for my drink.” I never understood why he singled me out, what I had done to deserve his relentless torment. But I had been raised to be polite, to never talk back to my elders. So, I would just lower my head in silence, picking at the rice in my bowl. My father, Mark, saw it all. And he remained silent. For a long time, I would ask him, “Dad, why does Uncle Rick always hit me?” Sometimes he wouldn't answer at all. Other times, he’d just parrot the same excuses Rick used, telling me to just do as he said, so he’d have no reason to pick on me. But it never worked. The next time, Uncle Rick would always invent a new reason to strike me. Over time, it carved a deep wound into my psyche. Mealtimes became an ordeal, a source of profound anxiety. I became timid, jumpy, constantly walking on eggshells. It didn't stop at the dinner table. He started finding fault with me everywhere, lecturing me in front of my parents for hours on end. From the day my uncle moved in, I never had another truly happy day. My life was a suffocating coil of tension and oppression. It wasn't until I went away to boarding school for middle school that my mental state began to improve. The distance was a balm. As I grew older, I developed the ability to see things for what they were. A bitter resentment toward my parents began to fester. I couldn't understand why they were so spineless. Why did they let him bully me? Why was it that this man, who lived off our family’s generosity, could treat us with such contempt, ordering me around like a servant? Even at boarding school, I still had to come home at least once a month. My animosity towards my uncle ran deep, and I did my best to avoid him. Sometimes he’d eat out, or my dad would take me to a restaurant, just the two of us. I’ll never forget the winter break of my eighth-grade year. I was running around on the lawn of our villa when I accidentally bumped into him. He hit me across the face with a ruler. My parents were right there, inside, watching TV in the living room. My first instinct was to run, but he grabbed the back of my down jacket, his grip like iron. “What do you have eyes for?” he snarled, his voice dripping with venom. “You stand right here. Don’t you move.” From the corner of my eye, I saw my parents glance in our direction through the large glass window. I was trembling, frozen with fear, as I watched my uncle walk back into the house. He reemerged moments later holding a long, thick plastic ruler. The color drained from my face. Tears streamed down my cheeks before I could stop them. I held out my hands, trembling, expecting the blow to land there. But the heavy ruler cracked across my face. I was thirteen. I was at that age where looks and pride mean everything. I couldn’t bear the humiliation, being beaten so viciously, so utterly without dignity, right in front of my own parents. The ruler fell on my left cheek, then my right, again and again. I cried, I begged, I stumbled backward. The pain was so sharp I instinctively tried to cover my face, but he just violently tore my hands away. I thought, surely, my parents would come out. They would at least try to stop him. But they didn’t. I screamed myself hoarse for what felt like an eternity, and they never even came to the window. I don’t know how many times he hit me. I only know that I felt the skin on my cheeks split open, the warm trickle of blood running down my face. My throat was raw. He spat on the ground, gave me one last shove that sent me sprawling, and walked away. I shattered. I lay on the cold grass and cried for a long, long time. When I finally ran out of tears, my gaze vacant and numb, I touched my swollen face and walked back into the living room. My parents were still on the sofa, still watching TV. But something about their posture was stiff, unnatural. “Mom,” I croaked. My mother’s eyes flickered toward me for a split second. When she saw the state of my face, she shot to her feet, a flash of anger in her expression. “Why does he always have to make such a scene over nothing? It’s so irritating!” Then she pulled me into a room to treat my wounds. My father never once looked at me. In the bedroom, as my mother dabbed antiseptic on my cuts, she muttered to herself. “How could he hit you like this? He’s so vicious.” “Your face is so swollen… this won’t go down for a while.” Her words only made the tears start again. “Mom,” I sobbed, “why didn’t you come out?” Her hand paused for a moment. “Come out for what?” “To tell him to stop.” My mother pressed her lips together. After a long silence, she finally said, “Next time, just be more careful. You know how he is. Just stay away from him.” It was a heart-chilling response. But it was also the first time she had ever verbally admitted that she didn't approve of his actions. Most of the time, in stark contrast to my father’s silence, she would side with my uncle and criticize me, even if she didn’t believe it herself. Last year, my cousin Jessica stole over twenty thousand dollars from my credit card. Everyone begged me to let it go, but I was resolute and called the police. That was the first time I ever saw my uncle scared. He wept, he pleaded with me not to press charges. My parents joined in, begging me, saying, “We’re family, just drop it.” I felt a surge of helpless fury. The incident led to a massive fight, and I didn’t come home for a long time afterward. I thought that seeing my uncle so humbled might have taught him a lesson, that he might finally show some restraint. I was wrong. He hadn't changed at all. If anything, he was worse. And now, here we were. At the dinner table. Not just with my parents and my aunt, but with two of my father’s old friends, important business partners. By humiliating me in front of outsiders, my uncle wasn't just putting me in my place. He was emasculating my parents, reveling in the intoxicating thrill of inverted power. But this time, his pathetic little power trip was about to end.
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