Everything started during my junior high , sitting at the back of the class, one table behind the window, rest my head on my math notebook atop my desk. The world outside was loud kids screaming on the playground, teachers barking orders but inside, I was oblivious. I didn't know that, across town, my father was...well what can I say. They caught him with the principal of my little sister's kindergarten, pants around their ankles, cornered in her office like rats in a trap. Furious parents had stormed in, their shouts drowning out the children's voices echoing from the playground, where student sang, "Our principal is dancing!" The irony was cruel, even then the scandal spread like wildfire. My mother, a woman of quiet strength, turned into a tempest. She filed complaints, rallied other parents, and by the end of the month, the kindergarten was shut down. My father, unfazed, shrugged it off with a hollow promise to "take full responsibility." Responsibility, it turned out, meant sneaking around with her again, as if nothing had happened.
The divorce came swiftly. Mom took more than half the property, packed her bags, and left with my little sister, Mei, without a backward glance. Our warm, chaotic home once filled with Mei's giggles and Mom's soft humming went silent. I was left with Dad, in a house that no longer felt like mine. I'd catch myself staring at other families, parents holding hands, kids trailing behind them, and my chest would tighten with envy. Every little girl, five or six, with pigtails and a bright smile, reminded me of Mei. Loneliness became a weight I carried, heavy and constant. I was powerless, a boy trapped in the wreckage of his own life.
Not long after the divorce, Dad brought her home. Xu Li, the kindergarten principal, stepped into our house with the grace of a woman who knew she was being watched. She was in her thirties but could've passed for twenty-eight, with flawless skin, a white blouse tucked into a black pencil skirt, nude stockings, and heels that clicked sharply against the hardwood floor. Black-rimmed glasses framed her sharp eyes, giving her the air of a polished office secretary. She was beautiful, undeniably so, but there was a calculated edge to her charm. With her came Fu Xiaoya, her daughter, a year older than me and a grade ahead. Xiaoya was a vision—long legs, curves that drew every eye, and shimmering eyes that seemed to hold secrets. At school, she was the untouchable beauty, the kind who walked with an entourage of bad boys—rich, cocky delinquents who owned the hallways. To someone like me, awkward and invisible, she was a galaxy out of reach.
The first time I saw her in our house, I couldn't help myself. "Jie!" I blurted, the word "sister" slipping out in a rush of naive hope. She flashed a saccharine smile, beckoned me upstairs, and led me into my own room. My heart pounded, my mind spinning with foolish fantasies. The door clicked shut, and her smile vanished. She crossed her arms, her eyes narrowing with contempt. "Zhou Yan," she said, her voice cold as steel, "get this straight, don't ever call me that in public and if you tell anyone we're related, I'll make sure someone beats the crap out of you." She stepped closer, her perfume sharp and overwhelming. "You're not allowed in my room. Don't sit next to me at dinner and God, look at you, you're disgusting like a toad. Do you even shower?" Her words sliced through me, sharper than any blade. I touched my face, feeling the few pimples that dotted my skin, suddenly acutely aware of every flaw. She stormed out, leaving me rooted to the spot, my cheeks burning with shame.
On the surface, Xiaoya was a chameleon. In front of Dad, she was the perfect daughter, clinging to his arm, cooing "Dad" in a voice so sweet it made my stomach turn. He'd grin like a fool, slipping her cash, doting on her as if she were his own. But I saw the truth. Once, I found a scrap of paper she'd left behind, her handwriting jagged with venom: "Gross, greasy pig with a bit of dirty money. Why doesn't he just die?" And beneath it: "My mom's a fresh flower stuck in a pile of pig shit."
Xu Li, by contrast, played her role with finesse. She was calm, gentle, almost maternal at first. When she noticed my acne, she brewed bitter herbal tea, claiming it would "clear the heat." I choked down two sips, tears stinging my eyes from the taste. But when I hesitated to drink more, she went to Dad, her voice soft and apologetic. "I'm trying, but he's so resistant. I'm not his real mother, after all."
That was all it took. Dad stormed into my room, his face red with rage. He grabbed my collar, his fist connecting with my cheek before I could react. "Ungrateful brat!" he roared. "You think you're better than her? Get out if you don't like it!" Xu Li hovered behind him, murmuring pleas to calm down, but her words only fueled his anger. For a moment, I saw murder in his eyes.
I stumbled to my room, my face swollen, my heart frozen. I hated them—Xu Li's cunning, Xiaoya's cruelty, Dad's blind lust. Most of all, I hated myself for being too weak to fight back, my life became a tightrope and dad was rarely home, and when he was, his laughter and warmth were reserved for Xu Li and Xiaoya. I was the outsider, tiptoeing through my own house, burying myself in textbooks to escape. College was my lifeline, the promise of freedom from this suffocating hell.
Xiaoya, meanwhile, grew bolder. She banned me from her room but invaded mine at will, rifling through my things, pocketing spare change. Once, she scrawled a crude turtle across my homework, forcing me to rewrite it. At school, we were strangers. Twice, local thugs cornered me, their slaps stinging my face, their spit landing on my cheek. I knew she'd sent them. My hatred for her burned, a slow, consuming fire.
By my final year of high school, I'd clawed my way to the top of my class. Certificates lined my wall, proof of my survival. Xiaoya, on the other hand, flunked out before graduation. At nineteen, she was a vision her beauty sharper, her curves more pronounced, her presence magnetic. But her life was chaos: thick makeup, designer clothes, black stockings, and nights spent clubbing with delinquents. Rumors swirled that she was tied to Brother Long, a local thug boss whose crew extorted kids outside school, beating those who refused.
Her behavior infuriated Dad and Xu Li. They scolded her daily, but their words bounced off her like rain on glass. When she demanded a new motorcycle and they refused, her rage turned on me. She slapped me, her nails leaving red streaks on my cheek, and hissed that she'd kick me out to claim the house for herself. I swallowed my anger, as always, too afraid to fight back. I came back from school and noticed my photo album was gone. It was a small thing, tucked under my pillow, but it held everything pictures of Mom's warm smile, Mei's tiny hand in mine, the family we'd been before it all fell apart. I knew who'd taken it. Only one person ever barged into my room: Xiaoya.
That night, while Xu Li cooked and Xiaoya was out, I snuck into her room, her room was a shrine to vanity itself—lipsticks lined up like soldiers, brow pencils in every shade. Her closet overflowed with dresses, stockings in every color, and delicate lace underwear, a mirror of her mother's elegance. I searched frantically, my hands trembling, but found nothing. Then I heard it, the sharp click of high heels. Xiaoya was back.
Panic seized me. I frantically hide under her be trying my best to hold my breath, my heart hammering. She stormed in, threw herself onto the small sofa by the bed, and muttered curses under her breath. From my hiding spot, I saw her long legs, clad in black stockings, her glossy heels catching the lamplight. She kicked them off, peeled away the stockings, and crossed one leg over the other, took out a paint then start painting her nails.