When I was nine, my mischievous older brother fell down the mountain, and my lame father rallied the whole village to search for him.
I took the chance to unchain my mad mother and point her toward the path down the mountain.
When Father came back and found Mother gone, he beat me until my head was split and bleeding.
My brother kicked me in the stomach too, saying I would have to do all the dirty work around the house from then on.
Three days later, I saw Mother again.
She stepped out of a car, her once-messy hair neatly combed and her clothes even carrying a pleasant fragrance.
Mother pointed at my fifty-year-old father, her finger trembling. The men in black who had come with her understood at once and beat Father half to death.
Then she hugged my brother tightly and began to sob as if her heart were breaking.
The men in black started giving my brother new clothes and shoes, and even handed him a big bag of candy.
Overjoyed, I squeezed my way over and called sweetly, “Mom!”
But Mother looked horrified and shouted, “Kill her! Hurry, kill her!”
Someone kicked me to the ground and tied me up with Father. I could only watch helplessly as Mother took my brother and got into the car.
I didn’t understand. We were both Mother’s children, so why did she want my brother but not me?
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