Chapter 4

That winter, I got in.

The day my graduate school acceptance letter arrived at school, I called Arthur.

He was so happy his voice changed, saying he'd cook a huge dinner to celebrate when I came home.

I had planned to wait until the holidays to go back, but I just couldn't wait.

I wanted to surprise him.

And surprise my mom too.

Even though I didn't have much to say to her, when I held the acceptance letter, I still wanted her to see it.

No matter what, she was my mom. She gave birth to me, raised me. Even if she was sick, even if she annoyed me, something like getting into grad school, she'd probably want to see that, right?

I didn't tell them, and bought a ticket for a week earlier.

The train was delayed for two hours, and it was already past nine at night when I arrived.

Winter days get dark early. The wind at the station entrance whistled into my collar. I hunched my shoulders, hailed a taxi, and told the driver the address.

My mind was racing, thinking about what I'd say when I opened the door.

"I got in" was too ordinary.

"Eleanor, look, this is my acceptance letter"—that sentence ran through my mind, then I swallowed it back.

Forget it, I'd just say it when the time came.

The car stopped at the community gate, and I dragged my suitcase inside.

Some of the hallway lights were broken, flickering on and off.

Climbing to the fourth floor, I rummaged in my bag for my key and inserted it into the lock.

The lights inside the house were off.

I thought they were all asleep.

I quietly turned the key, changed my shoes, and took two steps inside.

Then I heard a sound.

It came from the master bedroom.

It was muffled, like something hitting flesh.

One hit, a few seconds' pause, then another.

Someone was talking too.

It was my dad's voice.

"Are you trying to call Maya again? Are you trying to bring our daughter back again?"

"Do you want to destroy this family so badly?"

I didn't turn on the lights.

The hallway was dark. I fumbled my way to the master bedroom door.

The door wasn't fully closed, leaving a crack.

I looked inside.

My mom was kneeling on the floor. Kneeling.

Her whole body was slumped, her knees against the floor, her upper body leaning against the bed, as if she couldn't stand up.

My dad stood in front of her, one hand gripping her chin, lifting her face. His other hand was clenched into a fist, suspended in mid-air.

"I've supported you for over twenty years. Is this how you repay me?"

The words "My dad hit me" exploded in my head.

But I still didn't move.

When my mom's face turned, I didn't see any obvious injuries.

There was a small cut at the corner of her mouth, tiny, like she'd accidentally bumped it.

A very faint red mark on her left cheek, as if something had brushed against it.

Her left hand was curled, unable to straighten, and there was bruising under her fingernails, dark purple.

When my dad's fist came down, she didn't flinch.

She didn't even close her eyes.

She just looked at him, her eyes as calm as someone not being hit.

Then she saw me.

Through the crack in the door, she saw me.

In that instant, her eyes lit up.

It was then I understood she wasn't waiting for me to save her.

She was waiting for me to see it for myself.