1 The day my seven-year-old sister was diagnosed autistic, Mom sat unmoving until dusk. Next morning, I stuck my foot out for her to tie my sneaker, as usual. Dad yanked me back. "Can't you see she's upset? Tie them yourself!" Mom watched with red eyes, then pulled my sister close, murmuring comfort. My shoelace snapped, whipping my hand raw. After that, my sister screamed nightly until her voice rasped. Mom paced the living room holding her, while I hid under my blanket, counting to four hundred with no sleep. My midterm rank crashed from first to forty-fifth. When the teacher demanded a parent meeting, my sister tumbled off the couch. Mom scooped her up, sobbing. "She's struggling—can't you be more understanding?" Dad twisted my ear. "Grow up! Must the world revolve around you?" At dinner, Mom peeled shrimp into my sister's bowl. Mine stayed empty. But Mom, I'd done nothing wrong. So why did I feel invisible now? … Mom leaned down to wipe the soup from my sister's chin. My sister hated being touched. She jerked away, letting out a sharp, high pitched shriek. Mom's hand froze in midair. Her eyes welled with tears again. Dad slammed his chopsticks onto the table. "No one eat then." The nanny cleared the dishes. I stared at the plate of vegetables I had not even had a chance to touch. I was starving, but I did not dare say a word. Our dinners did not use to be like this. We used to laugh and talk about our day. But after her diagnosis, all the warmth was sucked out of the room overnight. The next day, Dad took a day off to drive my sister and Mom to the therapy center for an evaluation. He said he would drop me off at school on the way. But the moment my sister got into the car, she started banging her head against the seat, crying until her face turned purple. Mom held her, her voice trembling with panic. "Luna, don't be scared, Mommy is here." Dad pulled over to the curb and yelled at me, "Get out! Take a cab to school yourself!" I froze. We were right next to the highway entrance. Cars were zooming past us, one after another. Mom finally looked up at me, her lips trembling. "Nicholas, just do what your sister wants for now." I grabbed my backpack and got out. When the car door slammed shut, her crying was muffled behind the glass. I stood on the side of the road, my palms slick with sweat. My smart watch was in my backpack. I pulled it out, wanting to call a ride, but I did not know how. I had never done it before. Normally, my parents drove me, or Dad's driver picked me up. Eventually, a female police officer saw me. "Hey there, where are your parents?" I looked down, feeling embarrassed. "They had an emergency." She called a cab for me, and I left her my parents' phone number. By the time I walked into my classroom, the first period was half over. The entire class stared at me. "Nicholas, why are you late? Your parents didn't call in." I stood at the door, my face burning hot. When I got home that evening, the living room was piled high with books and pamphlets on autism. There was also a receipt. When I walked past, I saw the numbers on it. Fifty dollars an hour. Five times a week. Before this, my basketball club only cost three hundred dollars a semester. Now, Dad stared at the receipt, silent for a long time. "Let's pay for three months first," he said. Mom whispered, "What about Nicholas's basketball lessons?" Dad rubbed his temples, visibly irritated. "Cancel them for now." I stood in the doorway, my fingers gripping the straps of my backpack. Mom turned and saw me, looking momentarily flustered. "Nicholas, let's take a break from basketball for a little while, okay? Once Luna stabilizes, I'll sign you back up." I nodded. But the tournament was next month. My shoes had already been ordered. They were black with reflective stripes on the ankles. Mom used to say they made me look like a little superhero. But I did not say a word. I was afraid that if I brought it up, she would cry again. At night, I sat at my desk doing homework. Suddenly, Luna screamed from the living room. My pen slipped, drawing a long, jagged black line across my workbook. Dad shouted from outside, "Nicholas! Close your door tight! Don't let her hear you turning pages!" I froze. I carefully pressed down on the paper, turning each page as slowly and silently as I could. The teacher called me in a second time because I fell asleep in class. My desk partner gasped and caught me before I slid off my chair. The teacher looked at the dark circles under my eyes, her voice softening. "Nicholas, if things are difficult at home, you can tell me." My first instinct was to apologize. "I am so sorry, Mrs. Gable. It won't happen again." She sighed and handed me my school planner. "Have your parents sign this." I shoved the planner deep into the bottom of my backpack. All the way home, I tried to figure out how to ask without making them angry. But there was no room for my voice at home. Luna refused to go inside when they got back from the therapy center. She wrapped herself around the hallway fire hydrant, curling up on the cold floor. Mom knelt beside her, coaxing her. Dad stood there, looking miserable, holding the therapy plan the center had given them. A neighbor opened their door to look. Dad glared at them. "What are you looking at?" I stood by the elevator, not daring to walk over. Luna was crying so hard she could barely breathe. Mom was crying too. She could not lift Luna, so she just used her own body to shield her from the wall, terrified she would bang her head. I walked over and whispered to Dad, "My teacher needs a signature..." Before I could finish, Dad snapped his head around. "Are you blind? Is this the time for that?" I stepped back in fear. The school planner slipped from my hand, landing on the floor. Luna's foot stomped right onto it, crumpling the cover into a ball. Dad bent down to pick it up, his eyes falling on the teacher's note: Nicholas seems exhausted in class, and his grades are dropping significantly. Please look into this. He let out a cold, bitter laugh. "I don't even have enough hours in the day to breathe, and she wants me to look into you?" I looked down, my throat tight. Mom finally looked up. "Nicholas, have you been staying up too late?" A sudden spark of hope lit up in my chest. She noticed. She knew I wasn't sleeping well. But in the next second, she said, "Your sister's emotions are highly unstable at night. You have to endure it. When you get home from school, finish your homework first. Don't drag it out so late." My heart went completely cold. In her eyes, the problem was simply that I did not manage my time well. Dad threw the planner back at me. "If your grades are dropping, fix them yourself. We don't have the energy for you right now." From that day on, I made sure to finish all my homework at school. I did not even leave my desk during the short breaks. When my classmates invited me to play basketball, I shook my head. But Luna's condition only worsened. She could not stay in a regular school. Mom took her to a special education integration class for a trial. On the first day, Mom sat in with her. The moment the bell rang, Luna shrieked and crawled under the desk, refusing to come out. The teacher spent half an hour trying to soothe her, finally advising Mom, "Don't think about regular schools for now. She needs one on one training and basic life skills, and the family must cooperate." When they got home, Mom sat on the couch in absolute silence. Dad smoked on the balcony all night. The next day, he sold our second car. On my twelfth birthday, Mom forgot. She had spent the day with Luna for a speech evaluation, waiting in line until late afternoon. Luna had a meltdown in the hospital lobby, thrashing on the floor and hitting her forehead against a chair leg. Mom held her and wept, while Dad screamed at the onlookers who were whispering and pointing. They did not get home until seven in the evening. I had been sitting at the dining table for an hour. There were three simple dishes and soup that the nanny had prepared before she left. No cake. No candles. Every year before this, Mom would make me a paper crown by hand. Dad would lift me onto a chair and let me make a wish. This year, I did not say anything. I wanted to wait for them to remember on their own. Mom walked in, looking so exhausted she could barely stand. Luna slumped on her shoulder, clutching the numbered hospital cards. Dad slammed the medical files onto the shoe cabinet. "Severe! It's still severe! We've done so much training, why isn't anything working?" Mom's voice was incredibly hoarse. "It's not useless. The teacher said she held eye contact for two seconds longer than before." Dad snapped, "What good is two seconds? What is she going to do in the future? What happens to her when we die?" The living room fell into a suffocating silence. I sat at the table, my hands resting on my knees, not daring to move. The word die was too heavy. It crushed my birthday out of existence. Mom finally noticed me. "Nicholas, did you eat?" "Not yet." She blinked, as if only just remembering there was another child in the house. "Then let's eat." She buckled Luna into her high chair and began cutting up her noodles. She cut them into tiny, minuscule pieces. Luna only ate a few specific foods, and long noodles made her anxious. As Mom snipped, she counted softly under her breath, "One, two, three..." I looked down at the rice in my bowl. It was cold. The nanny asked quietly, "Nicholas, do you want me to warm that up for you?" Dad immediately frowned. "Don't turn on the microwave. Luna can't stand that sound." The cold rice was hard. Chewing it felt like eating sand. Halfway through the meal, Mom suddenly froze. She stared at the calendar on the wall. That date was circled in bright red ink. Mom's face went completely white. "Nicholas..." Dad was silent for a few seconds, his voice strained. "Everything was too chaotic today. We will make it up to you tomorrow." I kept my head down, swallowing the rice. "It's fine." Tears slipped down Mom's cheeks. "Mommy didn't mean to forget." I nodded. "I know." The next day, Dad actually bought a cake. A very small, discounted mango cake. He set it on the table and said, "Let's celebrate." Just as I was about to take my first bite, Luna caught a whiff of the mango. She shrieked, lunging forward to shove the cake off the table. The yellow frosting smeared across the tiles. Mom quickly pulled Luna into her arms. "Luna doesn't like it, it's okay, we don't want it." Dad stared at the ruined cake on the floor, his expression grim. Money was already tight. The therapy bills were a bottomless pit. Dad's business was struggling, and Mom had quit her job to do full time training with Luna. They had already withdrawn the savings meant for a larger house, and now, they sold my piano. The movers arrived the day I got home from school. That piano had been with me for four years. The very first piece I learned was taught to me by Mom, sitting beside me, tapping out the beat. As the movers lifted the piano, I rushed over and pressed a single key. A soft, lonely note rang out. Luna immediately began to wail from her room. Dad grabbed my wrist, hard. "Why did you do that? You know she can't stand the noise!" My wrist throbbed. I looked at Mom. She stood at the bedroom door, saying nothing. In that moment, I understood. In this house, if anything related to me made Luna uncomfortable, it could be thrown away. That night, I took a pair of scissors from my drawer. Standing in front of the mirror, I cut off the first lock of my hair. The scissors made a sharp snip, and a small clump of black hair fell into my palm. I stared at it for a long time before making the second cut. Mom used to say my hair was just like hers, thick and dark. She used to buy all kinds of hair gels and combs, styling it for me depending on the season. Cool gel in the spring, minty spray in the summer, anti static combs in the winter. But those styling tools had all been locked away in a drawer. Luna loved pulling on hanging things, and if she saw gel in my hair, she would suddenly charge and claw at my head. Mom had told me, "Nicholas, let's stop styling it for now, so we don't trigger Luna." I had listened. But every morning, I could not get it right on my own, and Dad would scold me for taking too long. "Who are you trying to look good for, spending so much time on your hair?" So I buzzed it all off. I cut it unevenly, until the reflection in the mirror looked harsh and strange. At breakfast the next morning, Mom saw me, and her spoon clattered into her bowl. "Nicholas, what happened to your hair?" Dad looked up from his phone, his face instantly darkening. "What kind of stunt are you pulling now?" I picked up my glass of milk. "A buzz cut is easier. I don't have to comb it." Mom walked over, reaching out to touch my head. I flinched and stepped back. Her hand remained suspended in the air. The atmosphere felt frozen. Suddenly, Luna stared at me and let out a bizarre, high pitched laugh. It wasn't a happy sound, just the strange noise she made whenever she noticed a change. Dad immediately pulled her away. "Don't let him frighten Luna." I lowered my head and drank my milk. It tasted bitter, even though it was sweet. At school, my classmates gathered around. "Nicholas, why did you cut your hair like that?" "It's so short, you look like a thug." Some laughed. I laughed along with them. When my teacher saw me, she called me into her office. She looked at me for a moment, then pulled a small comb and scissors from her desk drawer. "Sit down." I did not understand. She gently pressed me into the chair and began trimming my sideburns and hairline. Her movements were incredibly soft. "I'm not great at doing buzz cuts, but at least I can make it look neat for you." When the comb lightly brushed against my scalp, my eyes stung. It had been so long since anyone had touched my head like this. I blinked rapidly. She said softly, "Go ahead and cry. There is no one else in the office right now." I did not make a sound, but the tears fell, hot and heavy, soaking into my school uniform pants. She handed me a tissue. "Nicholas, there are still a few openings for boarding students. Would you like to apply?" Our school had a dormitory. Though my house was only a twenty minute drive away, Mom had never let me board before. She always said boys were too young to live away from home, that no one would look after me. Well, no one was looking after me now anyway. "Am I allowed to?" She nodded. "As long as your parents sign." That night, I brought the boarding application home. Dad was calculating the monthly expenses, receipts and loan documents scattered across the table. His face grew darker by the second. "The therapy fees are going up again next quarter. Special school fees, private lessons, sensory integration therapy... it costs more than our mortgage." Mom sat beside him, her fingers pale. "I will look for some freelance design work online. I can take commissions at night." Dad snapped, "You assist her at school during the day and soothe her to sleep at night. When are you going to find time for freelance work?" I placed the application form on the corner of the desk. "I want to live at school."
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