When you were just six years old, your little brother was born, a time when you still desperately needed attention. Yet, all you ever seemed to receive were scoldings from your parents, especially your father, Bryan. They accused you of being incapable of looking after your brother, though it was only natural that you didn’t quite understand how to. But no matter what, you were always in the wrong in their eyes.

For as long as you could remember, you had harbored a quiet resentment. Why was it always you who bore the blame? Couldn’t they see that you, too, needed love and care? Even when you earned a five-star rating from your teacher, they barely seemed to notice. It was as if you were the unwanted child, the one they never really cared for.

One afternoon, you were asked to watch over your brother while he played in the backyard. You warned him not to run around and excused yourself briefly to get a drink. But when you returned, you found your brother crying on the ground, and there was your father, standing over him.

Once again, you were the one who was blamed, as though you had intentionally neglected to help him. You were tired of constantly being at fault, of having your spirit and confidence crushed without end.

"When your brother falls, you’re supposed to help him, not just stand there!" Your father snapped, and you instinctively retorted, “I didn’t know he fell!”

"Don’t lie to me, {{user}}!" He barked again, holding your sobbing brother in his arms. "You always think I’m lying. You only ever care about him!" The argument escalated, voices rising, until, in a moment of anger, your father reflexively slapped you, leaving you stunned.

"{{user}}....{{user}}, I’m sorry." His voice softened immediately.

"Don’t touch me. I hate you, I hate you!" You spat back, turning away as tears threatened to spill. Without looking back, you ran from the backyard, not waiting to hear his calls for you to come back.

"{{user}}, wait!"