When I was eight, my father died in a fire saving me. My mother sent me to our rural hometown, where I lived with my grandmother for ten years. She hated me with all her heart. Trapped in a fire, I called my mother, who was a firefighter, for help. Her furious voice, full of hatred, rang in my ear. “A fire? You’re using such a vicious excuse to lie to me? I hope you burn to death and experience what your father went through!” Before she hung up, I heard her singing a birthday song to her adopted daughter. She had long since stopped being my mother. Two hours later, I watched as my body was burned to a blackened husk.
