After my mother's sudden death, my father and little brother left to arrange the funeral—informing relatives, contacting people she hadn't spoken to in years.
That part wasn't difficult.
My mother wasn't a sociable person. Not after marrying my father. One by one, she cut ties with her family and friends, until only we remained. That was his doing. His paranoia. His need to control.
He was rarely present in her life afterward.
Not as a husband.
More like an owner.
Those weren't my words.
They were hers.
My mother gave birth to me out of loneliness and desperation. She used me as a place to vent—whispering poison into my ears when my father was away, tearing him apart with words. Then, when he came home, she would smile. A smile so pure it felt unreal. A lie polished into something beautiful.
I couldn't love either of them.
I couldn't even understand them.
I was too young for their cold war—but wars don't care about the age of the people standing in the middle.
I grew up exactly as my mother wanted.
I became part of her.
A delicate boy who smiled when hit.
Who called punishment love.
Who learned that pain meant attention.
But what is love?
I still don't know.
My father hated my mother.
And because of that, he hated me.
I never understood why.
He chose her. He chose to marry her. He chose to bring me into this world—alongside my mother's selfish wish to not be alone.
Looking back, I was a stupid child.
Desperately chasing approval.
Begging for affection from two people who never had any to give.
For a while, my mother loved me.
My father hated me for it.
I didn't notice.
Her smile was too bright. It swallowed the darkness.
But I grew up.
I stopped seeking her approval.
I wore clothes I liked. Styled my hair the way I wanted. My grades dropped. I stopped reacting to their fights. They were endless, repetitive, meaningless.
I accepted that I couldn't change them.
They hated me for that.
Both of them.
It was the only thing they ever agreed on.
The grip around my neck tightened.
They crushed what little confidence I had left.
Hands. Words. Silence.
Eventually, the idea of a "self" disappeared.
I became a puppet.
A hollow shell that couldn't be filled again.
I didn't hate my mother.
I didn't love her either.
Yet I cried when she died.
I despised my father.
Yet here I was, lying awake in my bed, unable to sleep or rise.
I resented my little brother—the replacement they chose.
But when I saw him cry, I felt something twist inside me.
I'm a hypocrite.
Memories overlapped.
Her smile.
Her hands.
Her voice.
Her anger.
"Stop," I whispered, clutching my head.
"Please… stop."
The door burst open.
My father stood there—eyes bloodshot, veins crawling across his face. He looked feral.
"Why aren't you getting ready for the funeral?" he asked quietly.
I didn't answer.
Not because I didn't want to—but because I couldn't. There were no words for what I felt. Not even for myself.
He stepped closer and grabbed me like an animal refusing commands.
"Don't you feel ashamed?" he growled.
I did.
I didn't say it.
"Letting your little brother do your work while you sleep like a girl?"
Spit hit my face.
Still, I said nothing.
He snapped.
The slap came fast.
"ANSWER ME!"
Another slap.
"Don't you care that your mother is dead?"
Something broke.
A smile—dark and familiar—spread across my face.
Just like hers.
He froze.
"What are you smiling at?" he asked, sweat forming on his brow.
"At you," I said.
He punched me. Hard.
Pain bloomed. Ribs screamed.
"At me?" he snarled. "Why?"
I coughed, blood filling my mouth, still smiling.
"What good will a funeral do for a dead person?" I laughed.
"Nothing. Absolutely nothing."
I stood, meeting his eyes for the first time.
"You and everyone else pretend you've accepted God's plan while lying to yourselves."
I leaned close, whispering.
"Did you ever convince yourself that you loved her?"
His breath shook.
Sweat rolled down his face.
Then he hit me again.
"You're not my son," he said coldly. "And you were never hers."
He left.
I laughed.
Blood and tears mixed on the floor as I stared at the ceiling.
My cat approached quietly, licking the blood from my face.
"One thing is certain," I whispered, choking.
"I love you, Leo."