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I passed into a new age without anyone celebrating.
No cake.
No candles.
No words saying "Happy birthday."
It was just another day like any other. I woke up, folded my blanket, swept the floor, and went to school. Everything moved along so evenly that I gradually grew used to expecting nothing.
I studied well.
Not because I loved studying, but because it was the only thing I could do well enough to avoid being blamed. Grades were my shield. When I brought home certificates of merit, my mother would look at me a little longer, my stepfather would speak a little less.
That alone felt like enough.
During those years, my mother was often in pain.
Some days she clutched her chest and sat on the bed for a long time. I would stand outside the door, hands clenched, heart pounding. I didn't know what else to do but pour water, bring her medicine, and stand there silently until she said, "I'm better now."
Each time that happened, my stepfather looked irritated.
"If you're sick, take care of yourself. Why make life harder?"
he said—but his tone wasn't concern, it was exhaustion.
I listened.
And I remembered.
I began to understand that in this house, being sick was also a kind of fault.
My stepfather never hit me.
He never once raised his hand.
But his gaze toward me grew colder day by day, as if my very existence were an unnecessary burden. He never said it outright, yet I always felt it.
Some evenings, he drank with friends out on the porch. I stayed inside, doing homework. Through the crack in the door, I caught fragments of their conversation.
"She's troublesome."
"An adopted girl still eats rice."
I bit my lip and wrote my letters as neatly as possible.
I told myself that as long as I was obedient, as long as I was capable, no one would have a reason to drive me away.
I never once thought about leaving that house. Not because I loved it, but because it was the only thing I had left that connected my grandmother, my mother, and me. I didn't want to go anywhere else.
During those years, something strange happened.
Occasionally, my mother took me with her to another place. Not often—just a few times a year. It was another house, where I was told to call the owner Uncle. It was larger, with a small garden in front.
There were children there.
Two boys around my age or a little older. Quiet. Reserved. They weren't friendly, but they weren't distant either. They simply observed me silently—much like how I observed the world.
And there was a little girl.
She was much younger than me. The first time we met, she hid behind the adults, peeking at me with only her eyes. When I looked back, she pulled away. But whenever I turned around, I knew she was looking again.
After that, she began to cling to me.
Wherever I went, she followed. When I sat, she sat close. When I stood, she tugged at my sleeve. She didn't say much—she just stayed quietly beside me.
Once, I gave her a piece of candy. She didn't eat it right away, but held it tightly, as if afraid someone would take it from her. After a while, she broke it in half and handed one piece back to me.
I didn't know why my chest tightened at that moment.
I patted her head.
She smiled.
That smile warmed me in a very strange way—like the feeling of when my grandmother was still alive.
The two boys were different.
They spoke little, but always positioned themselves where they could see the girl. When she fell, one of them helped her up. When she cried, the other went to get water.
No one taught them to do this.
They simply protected her naturally.
I watched them for a long time.
A strange thought crossed my mind:
If I had siblings, maybe it would be like this.
The visits to that house were few and never long. My mother didn't explain. I didn't ask. I only knew that every time I left, the little girl held my hand very tightly.
Once, she cried.
"Again… again…"
she said unclearly, repeating the words.
I bent down and wiped her tears.
"I'll come again next time,"
I said—though I wasn't sure.
She hugged me, hugging very tightly, as if afraid I would disappear.
That night, I couldn't sleep.
I thought about the girl's eyes, about the two quiet boys, about a feeling that was familiar yet unnamed. An invisible thread had quietly tied us together, even though I didn't yet understand what it was.
Those years passed in silence.
I grew older. Taller. I smiled less. I no longer hoped to be loved. I only hoped not to be abandoned again.
And I didn't know that it was precisely that silence that was shaping me into someone else—
someone who could endure for a very long time,
very deeply,
and very persistently.