"Out of suffering have emerged the strongest souls; the most massive characters are seared with scars." — Khalil Gibran
"You're a disgrace to this family."
My mother's voice didn't tremble. It didn't crack. It was steady — sharp enough to slice through the air.
Before I could process the words, her palm collided with my cheek.
The sound echoed louder than the slap itself.
For a second, I didn't feel the pain. Just the heat. A slow, burning heat spreading across my face. My ears rang. The room felt smaller. The walls seemed to close in, trapping the air in my lungs.
Then she said it.
"I wish you were never born."
Each word landed separately. Carefully. Intentionally.
Not shouted. Not whispered.
Placed.
Something inside my chest tightened so hard I thought it might snap. My lungs struggled, pulling in air that wouldn't come. My fingers trembled at my sides. I tried to swallow, but even that felt difficult.
I blinked, and my vision blurred. Tears gathered without permission, spilling over before I could stop them. They slid down my burning cheek, mixing with the sting of her hand.
My knees gave in.
The cold floor met my skin as I collapsed, hands pressing together automatically — a habit I had learned well.
"I… I'm sorry, Mom," I whispered, the words breaking apart before they reached her. "I'm very sorry."
I wasn't even sure what I was apologizing for anymore.
Behind her, my father sat on the couch.
Silent.
His face unreadable. His posture relaxed. As if this was normal. As if I were invisible.
But his eyes — his eyes held something colder than anger.
Disappointment.
Disgust.
The kind that makes you feel smaller than dust.
The television was still playing in the background. A laugh track echoed from some comedy show. It felt cruel. The world inside the screen was laughing while mine was falling apart.
My mother walked away.
Her footsteps didn't hesitate.
I stayed on the floor.
The tiles were cold beneath my palms. My tears formed tiny dark spots between the cracks. I stared at them as if they could answer me.
Oh God…
Why did You send me here?
Why was I born into a house where love feels conditional?
Why does my existence feel like a mistake?
The words I didn't dare say out loud screamed inside my head.
What if I just stopped existing?
Would the house feel lighter?
Would they finally breathe easier?
The thought scared me.
But not as much as staying.
This moment — this room — this floor was where I first began to believe that maybe I was the disgrace they said I was.