When I was 9 years old, my older brother, being mischievous, fell down the mountain. My father—who was crippled—mobilized the whole village to search for him.
Taking that chance, I unlocked the chains of my insane mother and showed her a path down the mountain.

When Father returned and discovered that Mother was gone, he beat me until my head split and bled.
My brother also kicked me in the stomach, declaring that from then on, all the dirty and heavy chores in the house would be mine to do.

Three days later, I saw my mother again.
She stepped out of a car; the hair that used to be wild and tangled was now neatly combed, her clothes still carrying a faint fragrance.

Mother pointed at my 50-year-old father, her finger trembling; the men in black suits who accompanied her immediately understood, and they beat my father half to death.
Then she hugged my brother tightly, crying so desperately it tore one’s heart apart.

The men in black began dressing my brother in new clothes, new shoes, and even handed him a big bag of candy.

Overjoyed, I hurried forward and called out sweetly:
“Mother!”

But instead, Mother looked terrified, screaming:
“Kill her, kill her now!”

I was kicked to the ground, tied up together with my father, forced to watch helplessly as my mother led my brother into the car.

I didn’t understand—
We were both her children, so why did she only want my brother, and not me?…

The villagers eventually discovered the two of us tied up inside the shabby hut. They untied the ropes and helped us outside. The dried blood on my forehead was still there, and the innocence in my childhood eyes had been lost forever. From that day on, my life was no longer peaceful.

My father—already crippled and now humiliated after being beaten by the men in black—became more violent and more drunken than ever. Every day he dragged me out to vent his rage: whips, fists, curses that cut deep. I was small and powerless, forced only to curl up and endure.

Food was never enough. I dragged myself along dusty village roads, rummaging through trash, picking up empty bottles, scraps of metal to sell for coins. The few pennies I earned had to stretch to buy rice for myself—and to feed the drunken man I still had to call father. Some nights, my stomach burned with hunger, and all I could do was hug my knees and cry silently.

Until one day, while collecting junk, I overheard a story from the lips of the old villagers. They said my mother had once been a young lady from a wealthy family in the lowlands. Many years ago, my father had kidnapped her, chained her, and kept her in the mountains as his wife. In despair, she bore two children. But only one—my brother—carried the blood of the man she had once loved. And I… I was the true child of the cruel drunkard.

So that was the reason why, on that day, my mother only took my brother away, leaving me behind in the darkness. She never considered me her flesh and blood.

One afternoon, I stood hidden outside the gates of a grand mansion in town. Golden light spilled from its polished windows. In the courtyard, my mother, dressed in silk, her face glowing with a radiant smile, held the hand of my brother—now clean, neat, like a young master. They laughed together, as if no pain had ever existed in the past.

And I—dressed in rags, hair matted, feet calloused and bare—stood at a distance, pressing my head against the cold iron bars, letting the tears stream down my face. Then I turned back, returning to my drunken father, to the dark house, and to the fate no one wanted to claim.

Inside my heart, one question never ceased to burn:
Why did Mother only want my brother, and not me?