From the moment I could remember, I knew my mother hated me. When I was three, she gave me sleeping pills. At five, she fed me bug killer. But I was a stubborn kid, hard to get rid of. By the age of seven, I’d somehow learned to fight back. She’d starve me, and I’d flip the dinner table, making sure no one ate. She’d beat me with a stick until I was rolling on the floor, and I’d punch her precious youngest son until he was black and blue. I battled her with a hard head until I was twelve. Then my youngest sister was born. I was clumsy, fumbling with the tiny bundle as I changed her wet diaper. That’s when my mother grabbed me, slamming me against the wall. Her eyes were a mix of disgust and fear. “What are you trying to do to my daughter?” she snarled. “You’re just like your rapist father! Why don’t you just die with him?” In that moment, I finally understood why she hated me. I clutched my bleeding head, not fighting back for the first time. And for the first time, I genuinely believed she was right. My existence was a mistake. I should die. … By the time I limped to my grandma’s house, night had fallen. Grandma didn't bat an eye at my blood-soaked clothes. She calmly pulled out her small first-aid kit, cleaned my wounds, and then set a bowl of simple noodle soup in front of me. Usually, I’d devour the noodles, grumbling about how I’d get even tomorrow. This time, I just stared at the clear broth, quietly asking, “Grandma, I’m not my dad’s kid, am I?” Grandma said nothing, but the sudden aversion in her eyes spoke volumes. She abruptly stood, repeatedly wiping the table where the first-aid kit had sat with an old rag. I understood then – my blood was tainted. I was the rapist’s son. No wonder Mom hated me. A wave of nausea unlike anything I’d ever felt before washed over me. I stumbled out the door, clutching the courtyard wall, dry heaving. The night wind cut through me, making the gashes on my face sting. Before, when Mom hit me, I saw those wounds as debts she owed, debts I’d collect someday. Now, I felt too ashamed to even look at her. I didn’t go back to Grandma’s, and she didn’t come looking for me. I limped aimlessly through the streets, lost and unsure where to go. Then I saw a family celebrating a birthday outside a restaurant. The woman in the center, surrounded by her loved ones, had a radiant smile that made me shrink back. Last year, on Mom’s birthday, she’d worn a similar happy smile—until she saw me. The moment I walked in, her joy twisted into pure disgust. I remembered a school essay assignment called “My Mother.” I’d written about Mom as an absolute monster. My English teacher had pulled me into her office, pointing at my paper, lecturing me for an entire class period. I hadn’t really heard what she said, but one line stuck with me: “No mother in this world could ever hate her own child.” I’d believed her. I used the money I’d saved from selling scrap metal to buy Mom a birthday cake. All I wanted was for her to hug me, just once, like she hugged my brother. But her icy stare pierced me, making me feel like a clown with the cake in my hands. A flash of rage consumed me. When no one was looking, I caught a few frogs from the yard and hid them inside the cake. I still remember Mom’s scream when the frogs jumped out. Back then, a twisted satisfaction had filled me; she didn’t deserve to be a mother. She deserved it. But now, I understood. I was the one who didn’t deserve it. My very existence was a wound to her. Looking at the mother’s smile in the restaurant, I made a decision. This year, for Mom’s birthday, I’d give her a gift she’d truly love. A gift that would finally set her free. I decided to die. The moment the thought of dying surfaced, my steps became unnervingly light. I even started to plan how to die in a way that wouldn’t inconvenience anyone, how to disappear without a trace. But my plan was cut short; the patrolling police caught me and brought me home. Mom opened the door. It closed behind me, and I kept my head down, not daring to meet her eyes, only hearing her cold voice. “Why didn’t you just die out there?” My usual retort died in my throat, swallowed whole. Yet, driven by some twisted impulse, I hesitated, then asked her, my voice barely a whisper, “If… if I really… died, what would you do?” Would you be even a little sad? “Hmph. If you’ve got the guts, go die sooner. I’d be overjoyed.” She walked into my siblings’ room without looking back, closing the door. I stood in the living room. After a long while, I clumsily wiped my face and forced a laugh. I knew it. The birthday gift I’d chosen, Mom would definitely love it. Cole, the orphan kid I usually collected junk with, lived by his wits. He was street smart, always finding ways to make a buck. So, after school, I treated him to an ice cream. Crouching by the curb, I lowered my voice and asked him how to make someone disappear without a trace. Cole shot me a weird look, then shoved his half-eaten ice cream into my hand. “Stay away from me. I don’t do anything illegal.” I held up both ice creams, confused. “What are you talking about? Just tell me how someone could die by accident. You know… preferably not too painfully. That person might be a bit sensitive to pain.” Cole gasped and started to get up to run. Forgetting the ice cream, I grabbed him, holding him tight like a pig tied for slaughter. “I don’t care! You ate my stuff, so you’re with me! You have to help me!” Unable to break free, Cole just flopped onto the ground, looking miserable. “No, man, my good man, you’ve got parents, why are you so determined to throw your life away? Yeah, you get hit a lot, but they don’t starve you. Look at your arms, you’re bigger than me!” A lump formed in my throat, stuck between up and down, and I choked. I wanted to tell him that it was because they were neither wholly good nor completely bad that I felt this agonizing pain. Especially after knowing my birth story, even that profound, wronged hatred had no solid ground to stand on. I couldn't live anymore. But saying that would only cause Mom trouble, so I rasped back at Cole, “None of your business! Just tell me if you’ll help or not!” Cole wailed, “Dude! You want to kill your mom! How can I help with that?!” I froze, looking down at Cole on the ground in disbelief. When did I say I wanted to kill Mom? But before I could argue, a loud, familiar wail pierced the air from nearby. “Waaah! The big bad guy wants to kill Mommy!” My brain short-circuited. I slowly turned my head towards the sound. It was my idiot little brother. Crying and screaming, he was running so fast he’d lost a shoe and didn’t even care. That night, the sound of slaps echoed through the house for most of the evening. Mom swung the broom at me, hitting me head-on, her eyes blazing with the same fierce hatred she reserved for an enemy. But I saw it — tears streamed from her eyes. I’d seen those tears a few times before, but then I’d dismissed them as crocodile tears, stiffening my neck and butting my head into her stomach, promising her I’d get her back when I was older, that I’d kill her. Now, I just curled up on the cold tile floor, unmoving. Finally, she tired herself out. The broom clattered to the floor. But she didn’t look at me, just stumbled back to her room. After a long silence, I slowly pushed myself up, only to hear the muffled, broken sobs from her room, choked back as if she was trying to stifle them. The sound was like a knife, twisting repeatedly in my chest. My face burned, and the body I’d just managed to prop up crashed back to the floor. I raised a hand to cover my eyes; my hand came away wet. Not with tears, but with a mixture of blood and dirt. Just like me. Filthy. “Your mother, she was crying on the floor just like that when she was nineteen.” I snapped my head up. Grandma had appeared in the doorway at some point, her cloudy eyes seeming to fix on me, yet also on someone, some moment in time. “That night, her clothes were torn, and her body… was bruised all over.” “She didn’t cry out loud, just bit her lip until it bled.” My breathing hitched. “She tried to get rid of you later, but her body wouldn’t let her.” “After you were born, I threw you away, but by morning, the police brought you back to the door.” “They said abandoning you was a crime, that she’d go to jail, and they’d follow up.” My life was so absurd it was laughable. No one welcomed my arrival, yet I clung stubbornly to life for twelve years. Grandma, as always, tended to my wounds. Her face was old, her voice rambling. “Don’t blame her. Her heart’s in pain. She never got over it.” I lowered my head and smiled. “Grandma, I don’t blame her anymore.” I no longer hated Mom, but Mom still hated me enough to want me dead. She didn't know I was awake when she pressed the pillow over my face. I could even feel the pillow trembling with her shaking hands. I didn't struggle. I just closed my eyes and waited. Just as my lungs began to burn, a powerful force yanked Mom off me. Grandma’s voice was hoarse and trembling. “Are you insane! You’ll throw away another lifetime for him? It’s not worth it! Once was enough…” Mom crumpled into Grandma’s arms, letting out a broken whimper. “Mom! Mom! I can’t take it anymore! Is he as evil as his father?” Grandma held Mom tightly, but her eyes flickered towards me. For a second, I thought she saw my half-open eyes. But she just murmured calmly, “Go back to sleep.” Mom’s whimpers faded into the distance. I lay there, gasping for air, then pulled the covers over my face and turned over. I don’t know how long passed, but as dawn approached, Grandma came in carrying a large enamel mug. Inside was steaming hot chicken soup. Drinking chicken soup first thing in the morning was obviously odd. But Grandma simply placed the mug on my bedside table, her voice as calm as the lines etched on her face. “Drink it.” I understood. I wanted to say how impatient they were; I could have quietly died in a few days. Now, like this, they’d be in so much trouble after I was gone. But I said nothing. I reached for the heavy mug, its sides burning hot. I tilted my head back and gulped down the entire bowl of chicken soup. The strangely bitter taste spread from my tongue to my very core. The mug was empty. I placed it back on the nightstand, then lay back down, pulling the covers over myself, quietly awaiting the end. Grandma picked up the empty mug, stood there looking at me for a few seconds, then left without a word. The poison worked fast. First, a violent stomach ache, like countless hands tearing at my insides, then an overwhelming coldness, making me shiver uncontrollably, my teeth chattering. My vision blurred, and sounds grew distant. I heard Grandma’s footsteps in and out of the room, heard her making a phone call. Later, there was the piercing wail of an ambulance, a jumble of voices, blinding lights. Under the harsh hospital lights, the stomach pump tube was roughly forced down my throat. I vomited until I thought I’d tear apart, tears and snot streaming down my face. A young doctor looked at me, then at Grandma, whose face was ashen, his brow furrowed. “What happened? This soup…” He lowered his voice, suspicion lacing his words. With my last ounce of strength, I clutched the doctor’s white coat sleeve, my voice so hoarse it was almost inaudible. “It was… I took the medicine myself…” The doctor froze, his eyes complex as he looked at me. I released my grip, slumping back onto the hospital bed, staring at the ceiling. Being tough to kill, I guess, was also a curse. Even dying had become a luxury. Grandma stood by the bed, her back hunched, her white hair fluttering against her thin, wrinkled face. Before I closed my eyes, I thought I saw a single, cloudy tear fall from her dry eye, hitting the cold floor with a silent splat.
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