One day, Dad called me into his room: he wanted to talk about something serious, at least that’s what he told me. To be honest, I was a little worried. There was a woman waiting for me in the living room.

My family once revolved around my father, who raised me, looked after me, and was always steadfast in his support. After I was born, my mother left us, and my father chose never to marry again, perhaps fearful of enduring more heartache. Life had not often been gentle with him, and I wished to grow up sooner so I could help shoulder the burdens he carried as a responsible man.

Due to our financial circumstances, I began working at the age of fifteen. I wrote pieces for the local newspapers, and after three years, managed to secure a better position. With another few years of hard work, I eventually found an office job that allowed me to stand on my own and provide for both myself and my father. One day, he called me aside for what he described as a serious conversation, which made me rather anxious. In the sitting room, I was met by a woman my father introduced as my mother.

When she saw me, she broke down in tears, apologizing and attempting to embrace me, but I found myself unable to reciprocate. I gently freed myself from her arms and left without another word, leaving the two of them alone. I decided to let my father handle the situation as he saw fit. I could not forgive someone who heartlessly abandoned both him and me, and never even thought to wish me well on my birthday all those years.