Chapter 4: The Last Goodbye

That night my father said a lot of sweet things to her, then snored even louder at night.

My mother hugged me to sleep on the small bed in the laundry room next door.

She kept saying:

"He used to be so good to me, he’ll be good again, right?"

I asked:

"What about now?"

She turned to look at me, the corners of her eyes wet.

"He used to be so good to me. Before you were born, he really was good to me. If only you weren’t here, if only you weren’t here, would it be..."

I didn’t speak, just looked at her deeply, my eyes full of sorrow. It stung, the way her words landed. As if I was the reason for all the misery, when all I wanted was to be loved.

I thought my heart couldn’t hurt anymore.

She suddenly came to her senses, realizing what she’d said.

She hugged me, shaking her head to explain:

"Aubrey, mom didn’t mean that, mom didn’t mean that."

She whispered to herself until I fell asleep.

The next afternoon, after school, no one was home.

I pushed open the bedroom door. My mother was wearing a brand new white dress, lying quietly on her and my father’s wedding bed, eyes closed. Above her head hung their wedding photo.

Blood dripped slowly from her wrist, almost all gone.

A half-dried pool of blood stained the floor.

Her body was stiff.

My mother had killed herself.

She died in the dream she had woven for herself.

My father’s heart had long since turned to ash, but my mother always believed that it would sprout again come spring. In the end, all her hopes failed; her body and heart died together.

True apology is repayment and compensation; words alone are just a trick. My father was never worth forgiving.

But my mother never listened.

That year I was eleven, and from then on, I had no mother.

From then on, all of life’s storms struck me alone.

My father’s anger was borne by me alone.

No one hugged me to sleep anymore, no one called me Aubrey anymore. The house felt colder, emptier—a museum of loss.

My mother’s scent faded, replaced by the stench of cigarettes and alcohol in the house.

After my mother left, my father wasn’t sad. Instead, he cursed her for being ungrateful, not even giving her a proper funeral. The neighbors whispered behind their hands, but nobody stepped in.

Every time his drunken fists knocked me to the ground, what rose in me was a bone-deep hatred for him.

He beat me, I called the cops.

I once naively thought calling the police could solve everything.

But he was only locked up for three or five days, and came out even angrier, hitting me harder each time.

I was beaten until I vomited blood, until I was temporarily blinded.

Countless times I was dizzy, thinking I might die.

Sadly, I didn’t.

Maybe it’s because he should die before me.

I hated him, but I hated myself even more.

I hated myself for being so cowardly, not daring to fight back.

I hated myself for trembling all over whenever I saw him.

I hated myself for fearing something less than an animal.

This hatred was the only thing that kept me alive.

Life was like a puddle of rotten mud, giving off a disgusting stench. The world outside felt so far away, like something only seen on TV.

Because my family was poor, I had no mother’s love, no father’s care, average grades, and was quiet and withdrawn.

I became the target of bullying in middle school.

They made me the subject of gossip, isolating and mocking me. I sat alone at lunch, my tray barely touched.

Verbal violence can hurt as much as fists.

They didn’t hit me, but still made me tremble all over.

In class, when I answered questions, they looked at me with disdain, saying my voice was disgusting, deliberately mimicking me in a pinched tone. It was a game to them.

After class, when I went to the bathroom, they loudly discussed how weird my posture was, saying I deliberately twisted my waist when I walked.

They stuck notes on my back, threw my homework book around, and gave me all sorts of humiliating nicknames. Locker slams echoed down the hallway, and my lunch tray once ended up in the trash before I even sat down.

They laughed at my strange clothes.

But they didn’t know, when my chest started to develop, I went through fear, shame, and helplessness all alone.

I had no mother to teach me.

I didn’t know that girls my age wore training bras.

To save money, I wore my mother’s old underwear. The elastic was stretched out, and every day I worried someone would notice. I wanted to disappear.