I remember this one day in elementary school, when one of the parents came up to me and said,

“You must be so happy.”

Being the youngest son born into a rich family, ment to them that I would never have to worry about money. Everyday I would be coming into class in nice expensive clothes, home-made food packed for me by our housekeeper, and a driver to take me home after school.

It’s true, I should be grateful- and I was. But I wouldn’t say I was happy.

I was born from an affair between my mother who was a maid, and my father who was the only son of the house she worked at. 

My father’s father was the reason for their wealth, because he was a successful business man and public figure. When he found out about the affair, he had convinced my father’s wife to allow my mother and I to stay in the house.

This wasn’t because he cared for us, but more- to protect his image. He suspected my mother would tell the world if we were kicked out.

Only I knew, she would never have done it. 

My mother was the kindest person I knew. I’m not just saying this because she was my mother, but she truly was.

She could never walk by a beggar without giving money, or see an old lady struggling to carry something heavy. She’d always feed the whimpering stray cats in the neighborhood, and even stop by crying children to cheer them up. 

I remember all the funny faces she would make to try and get them to laugh.

She was my role model and my best friend. 

She was actually my only friend. I was never able to make any other friends during my elementary school years.

Middle school was when the kids stopped ignoring me. I would be grateful just to get through the day without someone tripping me in the halls, or throwing pieces of paper at my head. The worst was when they would whisper and laugh behind me, as if I couldn’t hear them. The loudest voices were always my brother and sister’s. Eric and Vivi. Although we were only half related, I still loved them and always wished that one day they would love me. So, even though I knew they were getting the other kids to bully me, I pretended I didn’t notice.

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It was on one oddly sunny day during the middle of winter, when the bullying didn’t happen. No gum in my hair, no spitting in my milk, no laughing, and no poking. Just peace. For some reason, I was being left alone. I remember this day was my happiest one in school.

Around the time lunch break was ending, I was told by my teacher that they were sending me back home early. When I asked why, they had an uncomfortable look on their faces and said,

“Your father will explain.”

I was both afraid and excited from the thought of seeing my father as my driver drove me back home. 

My father was a man of mystery because he was rarely home. My few glimpses of him showed me he had dark black hair and eyes. As if to match, he would always be wearing the darkest of shades. My hair was the same dark black, but I had gotten my mother’s blue eyes.

Those few glimpses of him, would be from peeking into his office. Most of the time I would see him working at his desk. He would wear these thin rimmed glasses and frown at papers as if they were his enemy.

Once I even saw his back as he was standing in front of my siblings. I would hear a distant voice from him as my siblings stood silent. The words I could barely hear, but the tone was stern and cold. I had never seen my sister Vivi so pale. She always seemed so strong and confident in front of me.

I never got one of these talks with my father. Only a few times have our eyes met, and I remember his stare was empty and dark.  

By the time I arrived home, I was led into my father’s office by our housekeeper. Slowly approaching the door, I could feel my heart racing. I wondered what sort of conversations I would have with my father. 

But all of my expectations were crushed when my father opened his mouth.

“Your mother is dead.”

And that was it.

They said it was an accident. A stroke they called it. My young self couldn’t understand at the time. It was difficult to process that my mother, who I had said goodbye to in the morning, was the last of her that I’d see. 

The days after were hard, and the days after the funeral were even harder. The years went by as I grew up alone, in a house full of people who didn’t care for me. Until my 16th birthday, when I left the house. 

The main reason I decided to leave was because I met my grandmother at my mother’s funeral. From what I remember, I was quite close to my grandmother when I was just a kid. Until one day when my mother suddenly stopped visiting her. Only once I got older did I realize that my father made her stop. 

At the funeral, my grandmother asked me to come stay with her at her home. I told her that I would think about it. I could have gone earlier… but I think at the time, I didn’t want to give up on my father and siblings.

In the end, my time there wasn’t fruitful. If anything, my relationship with my siblings only grew worse. So by the time I turned 16, I knew it was time for me to leave.

Highschool and college were both a good time for me. It was just my grandmother and I. Although we lived in an old house, we had a roof over our heads, and food in our stomach. I even made some friends in school.

Then years went by, and I graduated college, ready to find a job and support my grandmother for everything she’s done for me. However, I had no success in landing a job. I had graduated from a decent school, with good grades, but for some reason- I wasn’t able to get past the 1st round of interviews.