Divorce.
That was all she talked about.
I encouraged her. I was ready to leave with her.
My bags were packed, my money enough to feed us for a year back home. My brothers were the same—they told her to leave. They would stay with that man, at least he wouldn't kill them. He would either force my first brother to do all the house chores and school or hire a maid.
As a mother, she knew—and so did I—that man would place his maids above his children. We were always last.
She didn't want her children to suffer, so she suffered instead.
There were so many times I wished for him to disappear. Why didn't his plane crash? Why didn't his car explode? Why is he still alive?
Even his mother only wanted his money. His sisters usually checked up on him—not because they cared, but because they wanted his wealth. The money that was supposed to be ours.
Twenty years.
Twenty years and we have not owned an apartment, a supermarket, a shop, and not even a house. Nothing. We don't even know what businesses he runs. It's not that we never asked—he just says "business", as though we would drain his money if we knew.
I never questioned it until my teacher asked me, "What kind of business?"
And I had no answer.
Because I didn't know.
Today, my first brother was hit again. His old wounds—scarred into his flesh—had become a part of him. Not even sixteen, and he carried marks meant for men.
This time, there was no belt.
Just his 200 kg body against a 50 kg child.
Those monstrous arms, those crushing legs—he struck him as if he had found the man his wife cheated with.
And for what?
Because a teacher complained?
Because a child made a mistake?
My brother had been playing kick the ball with his friends. But instead of hitting the ball, he elbowed his friend in the mouth.
There was blood. My brother was devastated—that was his friend.
He apologized.
His friend accepted the apology.
But his teacher didn't.
Twenty strikes with a long, jagged branch—splintered at one end where it broke free from the tree. Sharp protrusions jut out, remnants of smaller twigs that once clung to its surface.
But was that not enough?
Why would you hurt an injured child?
My sweet brother was plump, thankfully—his fat could protect him from the teacher's strikes.
But what about the man's heavy hand?
I know what it feels like. His hand is heavier than any hit I've ever received from a teacher.
I have only been hit once.
The time his mother lied—saying I didn't spend any time with her.
As if I hadn't spent a week in her house.
As if that week hadn't been the worst week of my life.
Forced to do my laundry, my brothers' laundry, and hers.
Forced to sweep, mop, prepare breakfast, lunch, and dinner.
Forced to make coffee.
We weren't even allowed to bathe until it was the day we were returned to our mother.
And when their children insulted and hurt us, we were forbidden to argue or fight back.
They treated him as their father.
He paid for everything—using the money meant for us.
And he believes they treat us well. Even the hens are better fed than we were.
Meanwhile, my mother's family—poorer than his—gave us water to bathe every day, fed us, clothed us, and treated us like we mattered.
I am usually quiet and obedient, so there was almost no reason to punish me.
I thought I had stopped trusting him.
But I was still naive.
I trusted him.
He said he didn't have money for my university.
I am the eldest.
He had twenty years to prepare.
But of course, he was buying more land and expanding his business.
Someone told him about government loans—loans without interest.
So how did he convince me?
I don't know.
But I applied.
And when the repayment period arrived, I learned the truth.
The loan had 10% interest.
I told him.
And guess what?
Now he has a mortgage to pay for a broken house he bought without asking us.
"It's the house for my children," he said.
What children?
Some of us are adults. The others are almost adults.
He says he has airplane debt.
Then why migrate if you can't afford the ticket?
Now, he is pushing me out of the house.
"You need to be independent."
"You need to be self-reliant."
No. He means I need to help him pay off his debts.
And the student loan he forced on me.
I had just finished high school—I knew I wasn't ready. I was tired. It wasn't me who was in a rush, but him. He planned this.
And now—my grades.
Once in the top three.
Now, average.
A place where no one notices you.
It's not that I don't read.
It's not that I don't pay attention.
I do put in the effort.
I just can't understand.
My friends try to help.
But I don't get it.
This man has made me commit fraud.
Identity theft.
Since I signed in place of my mother—for something he lied about.
Something she didn't want.
I didn't know.
But I should have died.
I was supposed to be the one to help my family.
Not join him in making it worse.
He has finished his agenda, so now he abandons us in a foreign country, saying he is going to work.
Why not work here?
"Because the pay is useless."
The same pay he is forcing me and my brother to get.
He leaves before winter.
Returns in summer.
But winter is when we need him most.
Not summer.
To do what?
He left everything to me and my brother.
We drive.
We buy groceries.
We take our mother and brothers out.
We buy our family's necessities.
With what little we have.
And what does he do?
Sends spare change once a month and complains when we ask for more.
It's the government that keeps us alive.
I want to die.
There is no need for another copy of that man in this family.
And yet—as the eldest, I am becoming like him.
Stingy.
Obsessed with money.
Silent in the face of suffering.
Even the thought of death is not freeing.
How can I leave my family in his cruel world?
If I could turn back time… but the family of the past is not the family of the present.
I will not be helping my mother or my brothers.
I would be helping versions of them that no longer exist.
The ones who never saw this version of me.
For they are not the same.
None of us are.