I Torn Off the Mask of My Family

When the alarm went off for the third time, I looked up from the pile of documents on my desk. Outside the window, dawn was just breaking, casting a faint milky-white light. Crumbs from yesterday's cookies were still stuck between the keyboard keys, mixed with coffee stains, shining greasy in the morning light. I rubbed my aching temples, my fingertips brushing the fine lines at the corner of my eyes, and a sour feeling welled up inside me. Ten years. Every single day has been like this. I get up at 5:30 sharp every morning, grab my backpack, and rush to the subway station, squeezing onto the earliest crowded train, struggling to find my footing in the crowd. At half past ten at night, dragging a body as heavy as lead, I came home. What greeted me was never a hot meal, only the endless mess in the living room and Mindy Lewis's impatient nags. But every payday, the money in my bank account would quietly disappear, leaving just five hundred. Five hundred, in this city where prices keep climbing, isn't nearly enough to cover even a fraction of the rent, let alone daily food and expenses. That night at dinner, under the dim light over the table, Mindy Lewis's face was tight with tension. I poked at the bland greens in my bowl; the leaves had no oil on them, and chewing felt like gnawing on cotton. After hesitating for a long time, I finally whispered, "Mom, could you give me two hundred more this month? The company wants me to pay team building expenses." As soon as I finished speaking, there was a sharp 'smack' as Mindy Lewis slammed her chopsticks hard on the dining table. The ceramic bowl vibrated with a hum, and a few grains of rice bounced out onto the tablecloth. She suddenly put down her bowl, eyes wide with fury, her voice full of anger: "Team building expenses? Your company only knows how to rip people off! Is five hundred not enough for you to eat or to wear?" "But all my colleagues have paid and we're all going to the team building, only I'm not going. It just feels really awkward..." I kept my head down, my voice growing softer, fingers nervously picking at the edge of my bowl, still wanting to say more. "What's so bad about that?" She suddenly stood up with a snap, hands on her hips, her chest heaving fiercely with anger, taking on a scolding stance. "You're just a girl, running around every day with a bunch of no-good people. What kind of example is that?" I clenched the chopsticks tightly in my hand, my fingertips turning white, and my knuckles aching slightly from the effort. "I raised you all these years, and it's already good enough that you haven't turned around to take care of me. And now you dare to bargain with me?" Her voice suddenly shot up, loud enough to make my eardrums ache, and spit splattered on my face. I lowered my head and kept picking at the rice in my bowl, no longer daring to say a word. Arguments like this had happened countless times over the ten years. Every time I tried to claim a little bit of what belonged to me, she'd shut me up with her so-called 'debt of raising me.' The atmosphere at the dining table was stifling, broken only by the occasional clash of chopsticks against bowls, which sounded especially sharp.