Mom, Love Me Again

After they returned home, they sorted through Marlon's belongings. Every year, they honored his memory this way, going through his things like a ritual.

As they rummaged through the boxes, they chatted softly to themselves.

"Look at this calligraphy Marlon did when he was six. All his teachers said he had a real gift."

"Marlon always got top grades. He never gave us any trouble."

"Even with all the pressure in eighth grade, he still helped out around the house."

"He passed his piano grade eight at just thirteen. Those long fingers of his were bound for greatness."

But they seemed to forget that I had learned everything Marlon did and even worked harder.

I remembered once, during a school event, I played a piano piece on stage, and everyone clapped for me. Even Marlon said I played well. Yet Diane only shrugged and said, "Don't get too cocky. You should learn from Marlon."

Since our school was far from home, Marlon and I both boarded there. He was two years older and had a heavier course load.

Every weekend, I waited for him to come home.

But Diane never asked me what I wanted to eat when we got back. She always prepared a feast of Marlon's favorites, regardless of what I liked.

Once I hit middle school, I took it upon myself to help out with the cleaning every weekend.

I wanted to save money on tutoring, so I studied hard, chasing after teachers for help until the sun went down, often forgetting to head back to my dorm.

There was one time I studied too late and missed the curfew. I ended up sleeping in the classroom all night, too scared to wake the teacher.

But the dorm supervisor called Diane, reporting that I, a mere child, had stayed out all night. Without even asking for my side of the story, Diane stormed into the school, berating me in front of my classmates and teachers. "What kind of girl runs around outside at night? Have you no shame? You're a student; your focus should be on your studies!"

I didn't argue because I knew she wouldn't believe me. Eventually, a teacher stepped in to explain that I'd been studying late, which was why I missed curfew.

Diane softened her tone slightly, "Well, that's just because she's not too bright! The early bird catches the worm, and Marlon wouldn't have made such a rookie mistake!"

Even when I worked hard, I faced scorn. It seemed that no matter how much I tried, there was always a reason to criticize.

Diane's favoritism was blatant, seeping into every corner of our lives.

I once witnessed a scene that stuck with me: Vincent's friend sent a few boxes of big, fresh watermelons from out of town during the winter.

Fresh fruit in winter was a rarity, especially watermelons.

Marlon and I couldn't help but drool over them.

But Diane declared, "Only those who score a hundred on their finals get to eat these."

I figured Diane thought Marlon would easily score a perfect hundred while I was always too careless to manage it.

But this time, she was wrong. Marlon scored a ninety-eight, while I miraculously got a hundred.

I was bursting with excitement over the watermelon, but Diane said, "Marlon has been working so hard in middle school; he deserves it."

Even Vincent couldn't take it anymore and interjected, "Ashley got a hundred! She should get some, too! It's just one watermelon—we can afford it."

Exactly! It wasn't some extravagant luxury, just a watermelon!

But back then, I didn't understand that Diane's actions were unfair. I remembered getting so upset when I caught her sneaking into the kitchen while I was asleep, cutting some watermelon for Marlon. I threw a fit.

When I confronted her, Diane snapped, "Marlon is working his butt off! He's burning the midnight oil studying, and I'm just giving him a few slices! What right do you have to complain?"

I couldn't find the words to respond, so I fell silent. After that day, I swore off watermelon entirely.