Inner thought: inner child
When I was a child, around 3 to 5 years old, I perceived my family as stable—my normal. My dad was a manager at a company, and my mom was self-employed, owning both a travel agency and a salon, or so my parents told me. I had a younger brother, and we also had a live-in housemaid, which indicated that we were upper middle class in a small country in Southeast Asia. As a child, I believed every word my parents said and trusted that they always told me the truth because they were my parents, the two people I loved the most. My father and teachers used to tell me that I’m blessed with great memories, for me I think it’s a curse that makes me memorize most details of my life.
My father got angry often. When I got in trouble at home, he was always the one to hit or punish me—this was Asia, after all. People, including my mom, said that I loved my dad more than my mom. The truth is, my mom told me that the more I buttered up to him, the less angry he would get. Dad got angry at Mom and hit her too. Back then, I didn’t know what to do; all I knew was that the more I buttered him up, the less angry he would be with me and Mom.
I looked up to my mother. I was always next to her or went out with her. Once, when I was with her at her salon, sitting next to her, I said something that made her mad. She slapped me until my mouth was bleeding, right in front of everyone. I remember that incident very clearly because she kept bragging about it to her friends and used it to threaten me many times, saying that if I talked too much, it would happen again. I was embarrassed and scared, but I was never mad at them even though I didn’t understand why. I thought they did it because they loved me.
My mom liked to play cards with her friends and family. Every time she lost, she would announce loudly that it was because of me, calling me an unlucky bitch. When something didn’t go her way, she would repeatedly say it was because of me. That phrase became one of the normalized ways for my mother to describe me. Since I believed everything my parents said back then, it stuck with me and made me believe that I was an unlucky bitch til now.
My father’s job required him to travel frequently, so most of the time it was just me, my mom, my baby brother, and a housemaid at home. I saw on TV that moms usually teach their daughters how to brush their hair or do it for them. I didn’t let anyone touch my hair because I wanted my mom to do it for me. I never said it out loud, afraid of getting hit again, but that day never came.
Daily hygiene was another area where I lacked guidance. My mom never taught me, as she was either sleeping, watching TV, or not at home. It’s embarrassing to admit, but I didn’t know how to take a proper shower until I was 14 or 15 because I learned everything from TV shows where characters took 2-3 second showers. I was not a hygienic child, and instead of helping me, my mom would say mean things to me. Many times when I woke up from a nap or in the morning with frizzy hair, my mom would always say, “You look like you just got raped .” She often used phrases like these, starting from when I was just 4 or 5 years old.
I was a “smart” kid who skipped a grade in school. One day, my school hosted a Mother’s Day celebration. I begged my mother for weeks to come. After receiving many negative comments and some hitting, she finally agreed. I was super excited because my mom never came to my school; it was always my dad who picked me up and paid the school fees, or I got picked up by the housemaid.
I wore my favorite hair clip, the one my mom got me when she went out of the country for work. In a Southeast Asian country, products from abroad are precious. When the time came, the teachers led us in front of the classroom to meet our mothers. The line was by last name, so since my last name is later in alphabetical order, I was near the end. A line with barely 15-20 classmates in front of me suddenly seemed so long. I was bursting with excitement to see my mother, but to my dismay, she never came.
What was supposed to be an hour-long event felt like years as time slowly passed by. I felt like every eye was on me because I was the only kid without a mom. I still secretly wished that she would come, repeatedly telling myself that she was busy and would only be late, or that there was traffic and she would arrive eventually. But, as you guessed, she never came.
After the event, the kids in my class said they would stop talking to me and made fun of me, calling me a motherless child. Even though I told them I did have a mother, they repeatedly called me a liar, and no one believed me. The teacher did nothing about it. Public schools in my country were corrupt, and there weren’t many good teachers. They paid teachers way less than a livable wage, which made the students still need to pay daily or monthly “fees” to the teachers. therefore I had no friends and was very lonely. I don’t bring home any problems from school afraid that it will make my parent worried which is the last thing I want to I always keep everything to myself which was easy as they both never asked about my school anyway.
Anyway, I got home and saw my mother. Although I was scared, I asked, “Were you busy? Is that why you didn’t come?” I hoped she would say yes because it would at least hurt less. But she simply said she forgot. Again, I thought to myself that I shouldn’t be mad at her because she was busy finding money to raise me and had a lot on her mind, so she forgot. But a tiny piece of my heart was shattered.
Not much later, when I was around six, my parents separated and eventually divorced. Divorce was still a stigma in our country at that time. Many relatives gave fake sympathy to me and my little brother labeled us as children of divorce. I often heard them talk badly about us behind our backs. The divorce was messy, and no one explained anything to me or my two-year-old brother. All I remembered was that I didn’t have a complete family anymore. Sides were taken by many relatives, and most words spoken were negative. As sad as I was, I was happy that my baby brother didn’t speak or understand anything yet.
After the divorce, I lived with my mother, as she got custody of both of us, and my father had weekly visitation rights. My mother blamed me for the divorce, saying it was my fault and that I’m too talkative and she hates it deep down she doesn’t know I talk to anyone and everyone whomever I think I can even if they listen or not because I was so so so lonely. I saw my mom cry at night, and it hurt me deeply because I thought it was my fault. My mom told me that my father transferred all the money from their joint account to his own, even though most of it was her money since he barely earned enough from his monthly wages (this was true). We had two houses, and the divorce gave each of my parents one house, even though my mother had paid for both of them as she had put both their names on the house titles.
She hated my father, and rightfully so. She told me and everyone repeatedly that he was of “bad blood,” similar to “peasant blood,” and that I had inherited half of it. Every time I did something bad, she would say it was because of my blood, which made me think so too. I compared myself a lot to my cousins (there were seven of them; I was the fifth youngest, and my baby brother was the youngest; all of them were boys except me and the second oldest) because my mom always compared me to them.
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a little background about my parent will understand better and relevant later on:
I have two aunts from my mother’s side. My mother’s family is very traditional, as they came from a “prestigious bloodline with honor.” However, my grandma was separated but not divorced from my grandfather, as back then divorce was not an option since my mom was not yet born. My mom was the youngest of the siblings, and all of them were girls, which was frowned upon. My grandfather had mistresses, and when he found out that a mistress who was pregnant at the same time as my grandmother was having a son, he left her for the mistress. My grandmother had diabetes and was very weak. Out of my grandma’s family, she was the poorest but again it was compared to the riches, and my grandfather was a no-contact type of guy despite holding a high position in the government.
My grandmother also blamed my mother, saying that she was the reason her husband left her. Her two siblings were close to each other but not to her for the same reason. So, I always sympathized with my mother and believed that these experiences shaped who she was. I always thought about her feelings. On the other hand, my dad was an orphan and lived with his grandparents in the countryside. He had cousins, but he didn’t have much formal education or a “prestigious” background compared to my mother and her siblings. Although they were poor compared to the rich, they all received French, English, and national education and scholarships to study abroad. My father was looked down upon and disliked by many not only because of his poor background but also due to his high ego and bad personality. my parent grew up together and again hated each other as my mother and grandfather took in my father so he could come and stay in the city to continue his education. Their marriage was arranged and my mother’s siblings and cousin to relate to my father because of my mother. later my grandma on my mom’s side had a stroke and had limited thinking and she stayed with my 2nd aunt.
I have two aunts.
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Back to my parents’ divorce. My mother made many bad decisions, hung out with bad people, and easily trusted them. She was never home and repeatedly used me for her purposes. After using her six-year-old daughter, she would abandon me like nothing. Yet, like a loyal dog, I went back every time she called.
One instance stands out: she took me with her and her friend to meet people she was supposedly doing business with. She asked me to butter them up. Once she was done, she went to the club with them. I was too young to go with her, so she sent me home alone in a rickshaw at night. Our country was known for being very unsafe, with many bad situations occurring. She always praised me for being independent, which made me happy despite the circumstances.
Although I was scared the whole ride, I called my dad on my taped-up phone that he got me so we could easily communicate. It was a used phone that needed to be held together by tape and rubber bands (this is real), and it barely worked, but I loved it. I called my dad from the rickshaw because I was terrified. I had been introduced to the world of danger and the word rape at such a young age, so I was easily terrified but couldn’t let it show. My dad was out of the state for work, and when I called him, I lied and said I was with an adult because I didn’t want my parent to fight. Luckily, he didn’t ask to speak to the adult because that supposed “adult” was related to my mother, and my dad hated everything related to her the feeling was very mutual they refused to call each other names when to me and my brother I would only say “ yr mother or yr father” or “that girl or that guy”. This was, sadly, only one of many times. My mother told her relatives and friends that I was a jealous person. this was due to a fight, I once told her that I was jealous of my baby brother because she seemed to love him more than me. my own other told them that so ofc everyone else would believe it too. so I was labeled as “spoiled, jealous, and unlucky” by everyone. Though my relatives talked badly about me, they still tolerated me. I didn’t understand why at the time because I truly loved all of them. I catered to all of them and never fought with them, hoping they would love me back. This was also the nature of my relationship with my cousins.
My mother’s bad decisions eventually caught up with her as she began to have financial problems.
One day, I remember it so clearly. It was the weekend, and it was sunny, but my mother was home. I was so excited because she told me to get up early so the two of us could go to my second aunt’s house ( I hate waking up early but that day waking up early meant I got to spend more time with my other I got super excited ), which is in a compound with houses that are all next to each other and belong to our relatives as they were inherited from previous generations, and visit my grandmother. I was so happy. I wore my favorite hair clip and woke up at dawn to get ready by myself. I wore my favorite dress and shoes that my mother bought me and went with her.
During the car ride, my mother was silent, while I talked to her about everything from trees to roads. What surprised me was that she didn’t get mad or yell at me like she usually did when I talked too much, which made me happy. She even smiled at me from time to time, which made me think it was going to be the greatest day ever.
We reached my aunt’s house, but she, her husband, and my cousins were not there. Only my grandmother and their maid, Vivi, were home. My mother parked her car at the front gate into the compound houses. I didn’t question her. We got out of the car, unlocked the gate, and walked into the compound. It seemed like most of our relatives were not home as it was quiet. Since it was the weekend, they might have gone out to spend time with their respective families.
We walked into my second aunt’s home and were greeted by Vivi and my grandmother, who had had a stroke and was very weak. She couldn’t think too much but could walk and eat on her own (she was like a toddler). V had worked for our family since she was a teen and was only six years older than my mother. She had watched and cared for all of us (mostly my cousins) as we grew up. She was very honest, loyal, and lovely. V prepared snacks for us, and we exchanged small talk with my grandmother for about an hour.
Later, my mother told me she had to go to the market to grab some stuff for my baby brother. She explained that the market (a street market, not air-conditioned and often dirty) was very hot, so she would go by herself. She suggested that I stay and watch TV, and that she would be back soon. I remember telling her, “Please buy me my favorite Milo with lots of ice, and don’t be too long. Love you,” and she replied, “Sure.”
As time went by, I watched many episodes on Cartoon Network, but my mom still hadn’t returned. I got worried and called her. She answered and told me she would be back soon, so I felt less worried and didn’t think much of it. I got bored of the TV, so I decided to sit right in front of the front door of the house. One hour turned into many as I lost track of time while sitting and waiting. I was panicking inside, and my phone calls kept failing to go through (we didn’t have voicemail back then).
The sky started to get dark, but I stayed unmoved in the same spot. The streetlights turned on, and Vivi told me to get inside and wait, as mosquitoes would bite me. I refused. The gate opened, and my aunt’s family returned home. They looked at me as I greeted them uncomfortably in front of their entrance (outside the door). My cousins waved at me a little, but my aunt and uncle-in-law just said my name and gave me that same fake sympathy they had shown when my parents were getting divorced. I sensed it but shook it off as I focused on waiting for my mom.
They called me in later for dinner, but I refused again, staying in the same spot and continually dialing my mother’s number, no matter how many times the calls didn’t go through. I stayed there for hours until late at night when they needed to close the door and lock it, so they called me in. Scared of my aunts, I obeyed. They didn’t say anything and told me to spend the night in my grandmother’s room. My grandmother shared the room with M, my oldest cousin. I adored and loveeeee M dearly and shared everything with her, despite our age gap, as she was the only other girl in the family.
I said yes and went to my grandmother’s room. They told me to sleep next to my grandmother, while M would spend the night with her brother in his room. As I went to get ready to shower, I called my mother again, and this time she picked up. My first question was, “Are you okay?” I repeatedly asked her many questions about her safety, forgetting to let her reply. I was met with silence on the other end of the line. Minutes passed as I repeatedly said “hello” to make sure she was still there. Finally, she said, “I’m okay,” which brought some relief to my heart, and I said, “Thank goodness.”
I then told her, “I will ask V to unlock the house door since you’re picking me up right now.” She responded, “No, I’m not picking you up.” Without thinking, I replied, “You’re right, don’t come now. It’s too late; it might be dangerous to drive. Come tomorrow to pick me up.” The other end was silent again. Minutes passed until she responded, “I’m not picking you up ever.”
My heart dropped. I thought I must have heard wrong, so I said, “Sorry, what?” She replied, “You heard right. That place is your home now. You talk too much. I don’t like you. I want you away from me.” My heart felt like it had dropped through the floor, deep into the earth, pierced by a billion needles. Words can’t describe how I felt—no words in the dictionary or languages could explain it.
I repeatedly told myself it was a prank and she was kidding. I begged her on the phone, “Tell me you’re lying. Whatever you don’t like about me, I will change. I will stop talking, not say a word from now on. I will do anything you say. Please, please, please take me back home. I will do everything I swear on my life. I will not be a bad kid anymore. I promise. If not, you can hit me; I won’t cry, even though I usually do when you hit me.” But all I got was “No, no, no, and no,” and she told me, “It’s too late.” I kept begging, saying “please, please, Mom” until she hung up.
I continued calling her, but the calls never went through. Later, I went into the shower and cried for hours until my cousin knocked, needing the restroom. I wiped my tears and came out, smiling at her as she walked past me to use the restroom. V noticed my tear-streaked face and hugged me, saying it would be okay. I wore M old clothes and lay awake in bed next to my grandmother, crying silently, too scared to wake anyone up. I charged my phone next to the bed and kept sending messages to my mom and calling her, but none of the calls went through.
The longest night finally ended with the sunrise. I hadn’t slept a single second. I convinced myself it was a prank and that my mom would pick me up today. Everyone got up and had breakfast. I joined them, greeted them, and sat down. My aunt and uncle didn’t say a word to me; they talked to their kids as usual, almost ignoring my presence. I kept my head down, staring at my porridge. I thought to myself that no one in the house liked porridge. My baby brother usually ate rice with pork for breakfast, and my mom liked noodle soup. Like my mom, I loved noodle soup.
I didn’t eat a single bite until my aunt told me to eat, so I obeyed and had a couple of bites. After they finished their food and headed to work, and my cousins went to school, I stayed behind with V and my grandmother. V tried to make things feel normal, exchanging words with me, but I replied half-heartedly. When she went off to do her chores, I returned to my spot, even though the mosquitoes bit me numerous times, leaving many marks. I continued to wait for my mother, only moving to use the restroom or to eat when V called me. I always sat where I could see the door, hoping to spot my mom when she arrived.
She never came.
A week went by. I cried every night silently, in the shower, and repeatedly called her, waiting every single day. My relatives in the compound saw me and, clearly concerned, asked questions to my aunt behind my back. But I didn’t care. All I cared about was my mom. I missed her and my brother terribly.
Finally, I decided to call my father. He was out of town for work and wouldn’t be able to visit us that month, so he didn’t know what had happened. As soon as he picked up, I broke down in tears for the first time in public. I told him everything that had happened. He was silent for a moment before telling me to wait, that he would rush back. I believed him, even though I was scared he might not come through. He was my only hope.
Two days later, I continued my routine of waiting and calling my mom while also calling and texting my dad. When he finally arrived, he saw me sitting in the same spot and knelt down to talk to me. He promised to take me out to get noodles because he knew I hated the porridge at my aunt’s house and to get some snacks with me. He took me to a nearby convenience store and restaurant, letting me choose whatever I wanted. I was starving and ate like a mad person. I didn’t ask questions because I thought I would finally get to go home.
I finished one bowl of noodles and asked for another. My dad agreed and ordered me another one. I finished that too. Finally, I asked him to order one more, but to-go. He didn’t question it, probably assuming I wanted to take it with me. The truth was, I wanted to pack it for my mom and brother (who liked rice but was also okay with noodles). I was afraid to ask for too much, thinking it might upset my dad. I wanted to share the delicious noodles with them.
When the noodles came, I held the container tightly while my dad paid for the food. We got into his car, and as soon as I buckled up, I excitedly said, “Let’s go home.” My dad didn’t say anything. He drove past streets that were unfamiliar to me. I thought we were going a different way, but to my horror, I saw the street back to my aunt’s house just at the corner of my vision. Tears began to form in my eyes.
When we finally reached the front gate, I cried non-stop, shaking and begging him to take me home. My dad remained silent until I refused to get out of the car. He told me that he had spoken to my mom, and unfortunately, he couldn’t take me back. He didn’t explain why. I pleaded with him to call my mom and tell her I would change and that I missed my brother so much. I promised that if I didn’t change, they could hit me, but he said he was sorry and couldn’t help. He warned me that if he brought me back to her, she would take me somewhere else and wouldn’t let him see me or my brother. He also mentioned that he didn’t have a suitable place for me to stay in the city since his other house was in the countryside.
I continued crying uncontrollably, begging him to take me back. He brought me some clothes from home, even though it was just a few pieces. It was something, but it didn’t ease the pain of being separated from my family.
Here’s a revised version incorporating the new information:
He told me that he would visit me often and would switch my schools so I could return to studying. In our country, middle-class families typically send their children to public schools in the morning for national education, covering subjects like math, science, social studies, and national languages. In the afternoon, the children attend private international language schools, which vary depending on the family’s financial situation.
He told me to go through the gate, as that was as far as he would take me. I sat there for a moment, feeling more afraid of the reality of being left behind than of my father. Eventually, I knew I had no choice. I took my backpack, which was packed with two shirts, two pants, one nightgown, two pairs of underwear, and a toothbrush. I recognized the nightgown as something only the maid would pack because it was my favorite.
As I walked through the gate, my father rolled down the window and told me I had forgotten my noodles. I told him I didn’t need them, but he insisted I take them with me. Clutching the food, I walked into the compound. I watched as his car drove away, feeling all hope drain from me as I faced the harsh reality of my situation.
I walked past the houses of relatives, who greeted me awkwardly. I forced a smile and returned their greetings, even though I knew they were already aware of what had happened. Words in our family seemed to travel faster than telepathy. When I reached my aunt’s house, I saw that they were having dinner. As soon as they saw me, my uncle-in-law said sarcastically, “Oh, look, someone brought nice food. She doesn’t eat our humble food, so she packed it to bring here. Too bad she’ll be stuck with our food from now on.”
Feeling guilty, I replied, “I didn’t mean it like that. I packed it for you guys.” My aunt retorted, “Oh, sorry. We love our food. We don’t need yours. And I see you only brought one serving for all of us to share?” My cousins snickered and agreed with their parents. My grandmother, like a toddler, supported the dominant view, saying in a nasty tone, “She doesn’t want it.”
The scene was incredibly awkward, and I felt paralyzed, unsure of what to do. I stood there as they continued eating and talking with pride. I felt like I had done something terribly wrong and was overwhelmed with guilt. V, breaking me from my thoughts, said she would take the noodles. My aunt agreed, instructing, “Yes, give it to the servant. She’ll eat the food.” V went to the kitchen to eat it, while I remained in the kitchen, watching her silently.
Remember all of these is when I was 6- 7 years olds and they are all older than me and this is only part of my life spoiler alert it get worst.