My father watched me from the back of his Maybach as I picked through the trash on the street. He ignored the jeers and insults of my classmates standing beside him, his eyes filled with nothing but approval. A moment later, the luxury car sped away, leaving me in its wake. I was still staring after it when a sudden force shoved me to the grimy pavement. A devilish laugh rang out beside me. "Look at the little stray, dreaming of being a princess?" "That's what you get for staring at a Maybach you'll never touch." 1 My father has always lived by a single, unwavering truth: what comes too easily is never cherished. Especially money. That single sentence defined the first six years of my life. I didn't truly understand what it meant until my sixth birthday. I stood before a cake so tall I had to crane my neck to see the top, dressed in a designer princess gown that cost thousands. That was when he made his announcement. "From this day forward, you are responsible for yourself. I will no longer cover any of your living expenses." He knelt, his voice deceptively gentle. "Don't blame your father, Karen. Only by understanding how hard money is to come by will you have a chance to truly rise above." I barely understood, blinking as I swallowed a mouthful of sweet cream. Looking back, I think that was the last piece of cake I ever ate. It was so sweet. So sweet that every time I remember it, a bitter taste floods my mouth. From that day on, my world was turned upside down. No more new, beautiful clothes and shoes; I had to cram my growing feet into old pairs that were painfully small. No more car waiting to pick me up from school; I walked the three miles home with our housekeeper every day. I didn't even get new pencils or erasers, and the shame of wanting to borrow one from someone else always silenced me. I cried. I threw tantrums. I made threats. But in the end, I was forced to accept my new reality—the brilliant, celebrated entrepreneur on the covers of business magazines, my father, had no more money to spend on me. 2 I don't know how I survived those six years of elementary school. The house provided no lunch, as that fell under the category of my "self-reliance." My first-grade teacher, Ms. Gable, couldn't bear to watch me sit in the classroom, stomach growling, day after day. She started giving me her own lunch. She tried to speak to my father privately. "Karen is at a critical age for her development. The school offers a lunch program, it’s not expensive. She can't keep going hungry like this." My father gave her a few dismissive platitudes and said nothing more. When I got home from school that day, he turned to me and asked, "How have you been getting lunch these days?" I suspected nothing. I sang my teacher's praises. "Ms. Gable gives me her food! She's the best teacher in the whole world!" My father’s face instantly darkened, his expression twisting into a mask of fury. He declared that Ms. Gable was obstructing my development. He claimed that hunger was the very crucible that had forged his success. He would not permit such a "stumbling block" to stand in my way. Not long after, my father, under his personal name, donated a new library wing to the school. The donation came with a subtle, yet unmissable, suggestion: the kind-hearted, soft-spined teacher had to go. The school administration, though baffled, complied. Ms. Gable, hounded and pressured, resigned a few weeks later. I cried until I couldn't breathe that day, trapped in a vortex of guilt, regretting my innocent words. But the true despair came from the crushing realization that there was nothing I could do. At that age, with wings not yet grown, I was nothing but a pawn, moved by forces I couldn't fight. My new teacher, having learned a valuable lesson, wouldn't even give me a second glance. To fill my stomach, I had to find another way. I started secretly packing leftover breakfast to take to school. Our housekeeper discovered my scheme and, in a self-righteous tone, reported my "terrible misdeed" to my father over the phone. He rushed back from a business trip and made me stand in the corner all night. "This is cheating!" he thundered. "Have you resigned yourself to being a spoiled, useless brat?" I sobbed, arguing back. "I'm not! I'm just starving!" I clung to the sleeve of his expensive suit, begging him. "I just don't want to be hungry anymore. Please, just give me two dollars a day. A dollar, even one dollar would be enough!" He slapped my hand away, his eyes cold steel. "Only those who grow strong in adversity are worthy of success. Stop looking for handouts. Instead of begging me, you should be using your own two hands to earn it." "I've asked! But no one will hire a six-year-old!" He scoffed, a cruel smirk on his face, as if mocking a piece of rotten wood that could never be carved. "If no one will hire you, then collect cans. Sell scrap. You have a healthy body. Do I really need to think of ways for you to make money for you?" 3 I had no other choice. I did as he said. Slowly, a powerful sense of unreality and dissociation began to consume me. I lived in the most luxurious townhouse in the city but couldn't afford a new workbook for class. I'd overhear my father discussing hundred-million-dollar projects while my mind was calculating whether the recycling center in the South End or the North End paid more per pound for aluminum. At night, I would dream of the enviable life I once had, only to wake up crying into my pillow. The cruelest torture isn't never having something. It's having it all, only to have it ripped away. I couldn't stop thinking about how I used to be the center of attention in kindergarten, about the fleeting fatherly love I'd once felt. I remembered the other kids gathering around, admiring my shimmering dress, my brand-new backpack. I remembered my father lifting me high above his head, promising he would pour all his love into me. Then I'd open my eyes to the brutal present. I had become the withdrawn, sullen girl named Karen Murphy. In third grade, a boy from the class next door, Blake Vance, discovered I was collecting recyclables after school. He seized the opportunity to mock my ill-fitting clothes and the once-prized backpack that was now tattered and worn. In front of everyone, he snatched my bag and threw it down the hallway. "Someone birthed you, but no one's raising you. You look like you stink," he sneered. My face flushed with shame. "I have a dad! He raises me!" "Tsk," Blake said, wiping his hands as if he'd touched something disgusting. "Then your dad must be a total loser." A fire ignited in my chest. "He's not a loser! He's the CEO of a company! He's a hundred times better than your dad!" Blake laughed, a loud, cruel sound. He loomed over me, pressing a hand on my shoulder. "Oh yeah? What's his name?" I shrank back, my confidence wavering. "Marcus Murphy." "You mean the Marcus Murphy? The one on TV?" "Yeah." His grin turned even more malevolent. "Alright. Next week is the parent-teacher conference. If he shows up, I'll believe you." I gritted my teeth. "You've got a deal." 4 Deep down, I knew the chances of my father showing up to a parent-teacher conference were close to zero. But I couldn't swallow the insult. To my complete astonishment, my father brought it up himself. "I admit, I have been neglecting you," he said, his voice surprisingly mild. "I'll be at the conference on time. I want to see if you've managed to balance your academics while supporting yourself." The carefully rehearsed speech I had prepared for hours was suddenly useless. It wasn't just about some stupid bet; it was about the fact that for three years, my seat at these conferences had always been empty. So I nodded vigorously, my heart soaring with anticipation. On the afternoon of the conference, I scrubbed my desk until it shone, wanting to present my absolute best self. I stood by the classroom door, craning my neck, but the person who finally arrived was a stranger—a disheveled man in tattered, ill-fitting clothes. He pushed past me and bellowed from the doorway, "I'm Karen Murphy's father. Where do I sit?" The few students who had stayed behind to help the teacher all snapped their heads in my direction. They'd all heard about my bet with Blake. Now, seeing this man, they concluded I had lied, and their faces filled with a mixture of pity and contempt. I was bewildered. "Who are you? You're not my father." The teacher, hearing my words, looked over, her expression wary. But then, as if remembering the invisible, powerful hand that loomed over me, she seemed to decide that minding her own business was the path of least resistance. After a moment of internal conflict, she stepped down from the front of the class. "Mr. Murphy, your seat is in the third row." The man shuffled over, deliberately pulling a hole in his grimy jacket to the front. I was about to protest when Blake and his friends cornered me, pulling me aside. For the entire hour, they peppered me with questions, laughing and taunting, making it impossible for me to escape. Tears of frustration welled in my eyes. "Now you're getting desperate!" one of them jeered. "Should've thought about that before you started lying. Blake's family is powerful. You've really stepped in it now." When I finally managed to squeeze out of their circle and get back to the classroom, the conference was over. I stood there, crestfallen, searching the emptying room for any sign of my father. I scanned every face, but eventually, I had to admit the crushing truth: he had lied to me. The lights in the classroom went out. I dragged my heavy feet toward the exit. Just as I stepped out of the school gates, the man who had claimed to be my father stopped me. He awkwardly fiddled with the hole in his jacket. "Alright, job's done. Time to pay up." I looked up, stunned. "Pay for what?" "My acting fee! Two hundred bucks. The guy who hired me said to get the cash from my 'daughter.'" Acting fee? So, when my father said he would attend my conference, he meant he would hire a stranger to take his place? The man saw my silence and started patting down my pockets. "Come on, hurry up. I've got another gig to get to." "I don't have any money!" I backed away from him. "Then why'd you hire me? I had to buy this whole getup special for the part! I need to be reimbursed for that too!" He wouldn't give up, wrestling with me for a moment before finding a single dime in my pocket. The sidewalk was bustling with people, so he didn't dare get more aggressive. Finally, he gave up, muttering under his breath, "What a waste of time. I'll just go find the guy who hired me myself. Seemed like a big shot, telling me to get money from a little kid. What a world." 5 Even as a child, it didn't take a genius to understand what he meant. My father had deliberately hired an actor, instructed him to dress in rags, and sent him to my school to pose as my father. He'd even made sure I would be the one to pay the actor's fee. A firestorm of rage burned in my chest. When my father returned home, I confronted him, my face red with fury. "Don't you want to be my father anymore? Are you trying to give me away?" He shot me a cool, dismissive glance. "Consider that two hundred dollars a loan. Karen, you need to reflect on your mistakes." Before he could retreat to his study, I stepped in front of him, blocking his path. "What mistakes? Tell me what I did wrong!" He rubbed his temples, his patience clearly wearing thin. "It's been three years, and you haven't shown an ounce of growth. You're nine years old now. You should be able to understand what I mean by 'self-reliance.' "Why were you so eager to broadcast my name at school? What was your motive? It's simple. You wanted your classmates to treat you differently, to admire you." I was baffled. How did he know so much about what happened at school? But I had no time to dwell on that. "That wasn't it at all! Besides, you are my father. Is that something I'm supposed to hide?" He didn't answer, just stared me down with his usual intimidating presence. It was the judgment of a king, cold and absolute. Finally, he spoke. "I have gone to such lengths to forge your character. And still, you disappoint me. You're just like your mother—vain, foolish, and utterly superficial." His eyes narrowed into slits, a clear warning. "I never want to see you trying to use my status to your advantage again. From this day on, outside of this house, you will refer to me as Mr. Murphy. I need a worthy heir, not a shallow girl begging for the spotlight." 6 I wanted to argue, but the words died in my throat. I knew it would be a waste of breath. Better to save my energy. Worse than my father's misunderstanding was the ridicule from my classmates. After the parent-teacher conference, my life at school became a living hell. I earned a new nickname: "The Liar." My classmates, whom I had known for three years, laughed with abandon, their taunts growing more merciless by the day. "Your dad is Marcus Murphy? Nice try, piggybacking on someone famous just because you share a last name." "If you had even one other shirt to wear, we might have actually believed you for a second." "Liar, that shirt of yours is so worn it's shiny. Have you no shame?" Honestly, I never understood where all their malice came from. Maybe it was fear of Blake. Or maybe it was a desperate attempt to fit in with the crowd. Or perhaps, it was their righteous crusade against a "liar." Blake, of course, led the charge. He had other kids draw humiliating cartoons of me and passed them around. He posted "guards" at the girls' bathroom to block me from entering, proclaiming that someone with such "low morals" wasn't allowed to use public school facilities. I was going to tell the teacher. I even made it to the staff room door, but I stopped when I overheard his voice. "You think you have it bad? I'm the one walking on eggshells here," he sighed to another teacher. "I don't even dare look at Karen Murphy, terrified I'll end up like her last teacher. Her father is some kind of lunatic, I swear. I'm constantly worried I'll lose my job because of her. Why did I have to get stuck with this class..." Someone replied, "But the poor girl... I heard she's being targeted constantly. You should probably intervene a little." "Intervene? Are you crazy?" he shot back. "I'm not touching that situation with a ten-foot pole. It's a lose-lose. Besides, the kid tormenting her isn't just anybody. His family has connections. I'm not getting dragged into that mess." I stood silently outside the office for a long moment. I lowered the hand I had raised to knock and turned away. No one was going to hold an umbrella for me. Fine, I thought. I'll just learn to grow in the rain. 7 I grew up in that suffocating climate of exclusion and isolation, and gradually, I became numb. By the time I started middle school, I was an expert at surviving by collecting cans and bottles, barely staving off hunger with cheap bread. Plastic bottles, aluminum cans, cardboard boxes—I took whatever I could find. But life felt like a cruel cycle, the same hardships replaying themselves over and over. Not long after the first semester of seventh grade began, I was caught in the act. I was at a barbecue stand, stomping an aluminum can flat under my shoe, when my father's Maybach glided out of the darkness and pulled up to the curb. Before I could even process his presence, Jessica and a few other classmates materialized out of nowhere. She stood behind me, pointing. "See? I told you I wasn't lying. I've never had a garbage-picker for a classmate before. It's so embarrassing." My hand, clutching a woven plastic bag, froze. I turned to look at her. A boy next to her smirked. "This isn't my first time. The Liar was pretty famous back in elementary school. Right, Karen?" I followed the voice and my body went rigid. It was Blake Vance. How could it be him? I had specifically applied to a school as far away as possible to avoid him. My fists clenched, and I instinctively glanced toward the car. My father had to have heard them. A tiny sliver of hope flickered in my chest. Maybe this time, just this once, he would stand up for me. All the past incidents... I could forgive them if I told myself he just hadn't trusted me. But this was different. The truth was happening right in front of his eyes. He couldn't possibly turn a blind eye now. But he remained deaf to it all. His gaze fell on the crushed can at my feet and the tattered bag in my hand. A smile of pure approval spread across his face, as if to say, Good. You're learning to cast aside your pride, to temper your spirit. I'm being bullied! Can't you see that, Dad? The next second, the tinted window of the backseat began to rise, sealing him away from my view. Then, the luxury car sped off into the night. I was still staring after it, my heart a stone in my chest, when a sudden force shoved me to the grimy pavement. A devilish laugh rang out beside me. "Look at the little liar, dreaming of being a princess?" "Still dreaming your daddy is some rich tycoon? That's what you get for staring at a Maybach you'll never touch." Sharp gravel bit into my palms, drawing blood. "So," Blake drawled, "what should your punishment be this time?" I looked up at the circle of sneering faces, and a hot rage surged through me. For a split second, I wanted to take them all down with me. I ripped the cans from my bag and started hurling them, one by one. They scrambled to dodge the projectiles. I was like a wild animal, swinging the entire bag, sending a spray of stale beer and soda over their clothes and shoes. "What right do you have to laugh at me?" I screamed, my voice raw. "My life is harder than yours, yes, but my heart is a thousand times cleaner than any of yours! Being poor isn't a crime, but having a filthy soul and a rotten character is! You're the disgusting ones, the ones who should be ashamed! You don't even deserve to be my classmates!" 8 But in the end, my strength was no match for theirs. As they closed in, kicking and punching, my homeroom teacher, Ms. Albright, appeared out of nowhere and pulled them off me. She called their parents and explained the situation. Jessica’s mother, without hesitation, slapped her daughter across the face. "Are you tired of the good life I've given you? Your grades are terrible, and now your character is turning rotten too! How did I raise a daughter like you? If you were half as responsible as Karen, I'd be content!" Jessica said nothing, just glared at me with pure, unadulterated hatred. Blake's parents never showed up. They offered a lukewarm apology over the phone. I knew their type. They had connections. If I pushed for a real consequence, I'd probably end up in a worse position. So I swallowed my anger and let it go. After they had all left, Ms. Albright turned to me. "Is this how you get by?" I nodded. She didn't press further. "Let me see your hands," she said, gently examining my scrapes. "Okay, it's not too bad. But let's get you to a clinic, just to be safe." I shook my head firmly. A clinic visit cost money, the one thing I never had. In all these years, I'd never once been to a doctor. When I got sick, I just had to fight it off. Seeing my resolve, Ms. Albright sighed. "Alright. Do you have a parent's contact number? I'll call them to come pick you up." I didn't know what to say. After a long pause, I mumbled, "Thank you, but... please, just pretend I don't have any." Ms. Albright's expression grew serious. "No parents?" I looked down, scrambling to invent a plausible lie to satisfy her. But I never imagined she would find the housekeeper's number on my school file. My father, in his quest to hide his identity, had listed our housekeeper as my official guardian. Ms. Albright called and proposed a home visit. The housekeeper, terrified of losing her job, immediately refused. That evening, my father did something unprecedented. He canceled his work and was waiting at home when I returned. He confronted me the moment I walked in. "Whose idea was it to have your teacher come for a home visit?" "...It wasn't my idea. I didn't know anything about it," I answered truthfully. He clearly didn't believe me, his eyes filled with disappointment. "All these years, and you still can't let go of your petty schemes. Karen, must you always look for the easy way out? Must you always try to parade my status around at school?" For six years, I hadn't relied on him for a single cent. And still, he insisted on assuming the worst of me. I didn't understand. I was his only child, his biological daughter. He'd even forgone remarrying for my sake. Why was earning a shred of his fatherly love harder than climbing to the moon? I didn't back down this time. "What makes you so certain it was my idea? I call you 'Dad,' and I admit you're a successful man, but why is it so damn hard to be your daughter? For years, I've survived on stale bread, too poor to even afford a side of pickles. I can't get sick, I can't have hobbies, and still, you look down on me! Just like right now—I'm standing here, visibly hurt, and you haven't asked about it once. Can't you see?" The words tumbled out, and only then did I realize tears were streaming down my face. A tidal wave of grief crashed over me, filling my entire chest. My father remained motionless, a statue of disapproval. Only when my sobs subsided did he finally speak. "You are injured because you have failed to build positive relationships with your peers. You lack interpersonal skills, and it is only through such setbacks that you will grow. The business world is a treacherous place, filled with sharks. You need to learn how to turn enemies into allies on your own, not rely on my power to clear every obstacle for you. Just like today. You were clearly crying out for my help, but in reality, they hadn't caused you any serious harm. Karen, you are too soft. I am doing this for your own good. Stop trying to fight me at every turn." It was like punching a mountain of cotton. I laughed, a bitter, helpless sound. Even a bully like Blake had parents to protect him. I wasn't even granted the basic right to be cared for by my own father. A thought suddenly struck me. If I had no father at all, my life couldn't possibly be any worse.
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