My Question

Mistakes are bound to happen during the journey of life because it's
not only materials that you choose.

They say it's okay to cause an error, it's life. But is it really? My
life begs to differ.

…

My creation was a mistake.

I was created by a couple who could describe me as an 'accident'.
There was no plan, only two eighteen-year old teenagers' that
possesses not even the most basic necessities needed to raise a
newborn child—no degree, no job, and no own roof to live in. It was
just us, oh boy what fun! In a third world country, this seemed to be
happening with alarming frequency.

Fortunately enough, my grandparents in my father's side were caring
enough to let them, or us for that matter, live in with them after my
mother was released from the hospital. Another 'fortunately enough,
my grandparents were considered rich—back then.

So I was their bundle of joy who has a knack for crying continuously
every passing night. I didn't have siblings and I was the first
grandchild. My grandfather doted on me and spoiled me if he could as
I grew. Unfortunately, my father didn't share the same sentiment.

Maybe because he was young back then, or maybe because I was an
accident, or maybe because I was such a pain to take care of, or
maybe because I wasn't the son he wanted...I don't know and perhaps
I'll never know. What I did know back then after I turned two is that
I seem to create mistake after mistake in front of my father.

…

I was curious—and that's considered as an understatement in my
family. By the time I learned how to speak when I was two-years old,
I would never run out of questions. I wanted to understand how the
world works, or how the people function,...or how come my father
seemed to hate me. So I asked. But not directly. Because there will
be the 'adult talk' and my father would yell at me again after he's
berated by my grandparents—my dad would just speak to me with a
raised volume and terrifying anger, showing to me that I had made a
mistake and that I wasn't thinking.

I then found the reason why he behaved like a child around me after I
asked my grandmother: he and his young brother were ignored by their
parents—my grandparents—and were taken care of by their
grandmother due to work. My grandfather was a seaman and my
grandmother works as a cashier in malls back in the day. They didn't
have time for them. But they did with me. And maybe he was jealous of
that, thinking that it was unfair, that it was my fault. Was it?

My father would steal the food given to me by my grandmother which
she had taken home from a fast food restaurant. He would tend to play
more with my toys after it was given to me and it wasn't helping that
I loved cars and robots. He'd get angry if I bothered him. He also
doesn't like my talkative, curious nature. He never liked me, much so
love me. It was almost as if I was something that he never wanted in
the first place, something that ruined his young life; a mistake.

…

It wasn't like I picked the choice to be the intelligent one among
the family. It's called genetics. But he acted like I did. I acted
like he didn't exist.

I was rewarded by my grandparents so long as my grades are good. I
just loved the care and attention. Was it my intention to stoke the
fire? Maybe I did because I started hating him in return. Or maybe it
wasn't because I just wanted him to praise me, to be someone he could
be proud of because I'm an only child, his offspring damn it!

I learned the basics of mathematics, writing, and reading at the age
of three. Also I had a good memory. I entered primary school at the
age of five. Everything turned out to be easy. I graduated at the top
of my class. I was proud of myself. My mother was and so are my
grandparents. Why can't I be? I also have countless of medals to
prove it. But my father wasn't the one who wore it on my neck. It was
my mother. I don't even know if he was there.

…

I wasn't the perfect child. I have tantrums and abrupt mood swings
that I know could annoy anyone. I also broke a lot of things. I never
meant it though. How could I? I was just curious. But it didn't
matter to him. The ones on my body weren't the medals that were
supposed to earn at least a little bit of his pride but rather red,
throbbing marks that showed I have committed a terrible, terrible
mistake.

You would be surprised at just what you could use to hit a child to
'reprimand' them. There's flip-flops—his around five-foot-nine or
ten so imagine the size of his feet—a belt, a book, his all time
favorite which is his large, right hand, or whatever he could get his
hands on.

“You're just a child.”

“You should know better.”

Ironic, I know.

...

As I grew older, I became increasingly aware. I made a mistake there.
I should have acted clueless and needed help. Because if he did then
maybe he would have thought twice about leaving me at home all alone
with the television as my lone companion while he goes outside and
play basketball with his friends. He'd be gone for hours. Most of the
time, my grandmother would be the first one to come home around nine
or ten if the traffic is bad. He'd leave me around three or four in
the afternoon. I think that's the reason why I could withstand not
eating for long hours and why I have hyperacidity. Oh well. My
mistake. I should've known better to teach myself how to cook.

It's okay.

…

It's actually not. It was alright for me to be indirectly treated as
a mistake. I may be a child, around eight or nine, but I understood.
I did. He had a hard life, he wasn't treated fairly, and now he's
angry at me. I get it. But to experience it first hand is...one of
things that a child should never experience.

My father is handsome and my mother is beautiful. They garner a lot
of attention wherever they go. That explains why I came to this world
so early. Typical hormones.

Going back to the point, my father is well known especially now that
he plays basketball. So, they heard 'rumors' about him having a
child. Of course, that rumor is the truth. I was the proof.
Unfortunately, I loved basketball. I was boyish you see. That was my
mistake. I should have liked girly things but I just wanted to be the
son he never got. He didn't like it that I was trying even if I
didn't told him anything about it. If you hate someone's guts, you'd
just hate everything about them.

On that particular day, the three of us were outside; three since my
mother doesn't have work at that time. My mother had went inside to
make food for us and so I was left with my father. It wasn't awkward.
It was terrifying. I don't even know if I should breathe because it
felt like if I do, he'll beat me again. So I immersed myself with
playing with my grandfather's basketball. I was just dribbling.

Consequently, a group of men passed by and they easily recognized my
father. They turned out to be his friends. They talked, they mingled,
and they caught up to what happened in each others lives. I ignored
them. I was used to being ignored by him and anything connected to
him.

Suddenly, one of them noticed me. I was small for my age so I looked
younger than I was supposed to be. I was seven but looked five. He
was surprised of what I could do. The ball was almost the size of my
head by the way and I was a girl. He then did one of the things that
almost brought me to tears.

He praised me. He sounded proud. He sounded so happy to see me. The
delight was obvious in his dark eyes and his smile stretched his lips
wide where his face glowed with amazement. He showered me with kind
words and gentle pats on the head.

I didn't know him and he didn't know me. He was just a tall, muscular
male with an easy smile but I immediately wished he was the father I
never emotionally had. I wanted to cry right there but my physical
father wouldn't like that and so I would only get scolded and
probably beaten; not spanked.

He then asked my father if I was the 'rumored' child. At that time, I
was so happy and proud of myself as I beamed at my father. 'Surely,
he'll be a little bit proud of me this time!'

“What are you talking about? I'm only twenty-three! I don't have a
child!”

My smile crumbled. My happiness disappeared as if it never existed in
the first place. Maybe I just don't deserve it.

How could he say such a thing? He was laughing when he did as if my
existence held no importance to him. As if I was a thing he could
easily disowned. It was like he just did and with a smile on his face
too. How could he? How dare he?

“Are you lost then, little girl? Where's your home?”

I didn't have to look at my father. I already got the hint. Playing
around with the ball, I just randomly pointed at a house before
sprinting towards that direction without so much as another word.
Fortunately enough, I managed to hide myself while looking I was
entering the house. I stayed there for long duration. It was a good
thing that the owner never came outside.

There, I cried out in a voice my father will never hear.

…

In front of his friends, he indirectly told me I was just a mistake.
He never wanted me. He never needed me. I was just a burden he needed
to carry because it was too late to do anything to get rid of me.
Whatever I do, I will always be that one thing he didn't ask for.
Whatever I say, I will always be that noise that won't leave his side
even if I tried. Whatever I feel, I'm just that piece of trash he
doesn't care about. I'm disposable in his eyes.

I will never be the son he had always wanted. I will always be that
child. I will always be my
mother's child, not his; never his.

I'm nothing. I'm
worthless. I'm
useless.

How many times had he repeated it?

You're
nothing. You're
worthless. You're
useless.

…

I was intelligent but I was naive as well.

I clung to the thought that maybe I don't deserve anything. That's
why I have to work hard to earn it and if I did, my father will
finally be proud of me! And work hard I did.

I was included in the varsity where I wasn't bench warmer, I was
included in the school band where I was given solos which shows we're
good. I was included in contests that I won. I was kind, I was
selfless and I didn't bother them with my problems. I held it in to
fix it. I succeeded. I was well known in the campus.

So please, look at my way and tell me that you're proud of me.

Even just a pat on the head. Anything...please.

Please.

It didn't happen.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

Of course it didn't.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

“I'm okay.” How many
times have I repeated that to the mirror?

I graduated fifth in elementary. It was my mother who attended my
graduation since he has to attend my younger sister's. She's sweet, a
bit bratty, but overall a sweetheart. I wasn't surprised when he
picked her.

“I really am okay.” How
many times have I reassured myself?

I graduated second in high school. I've gave up on him just as he did
to me—but he had done it earlier—and my mother once again
attended my graduation. When she cried on that day, I wondered if she
had done it out of mixed reasons. I broke down one day, you see.

Was she happy that I succeeded or was she apologizing that she wasn't
able to keep her promise? But that's okay. He was taking care of his
dogs. What can I do about that? He loves them very much.

I passed the Entrance College Exam easily. The total was a
hundred-and-fifty. I scored a hundred-and-one. I became qualified for
Engineering. My mother was ecstatic and so I was. But my father said
to keep it down because it's the middle of the night and he couldn't
hear what the characters of his favorite online game is saying. Odd,
because there were usually subtitles.

My mother urged me to say it to him.

I did.

“You're too noisy. Go back to bed or something.”

I did.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

What good am I for in his eyes? I'm not something, anything—not
even a 'someone'—that he could be proud of no matter what I do or
say.

WHY?

Why couldn't he be proud of me? I have done EVERYTHING so that I
could be qualified to receive his praise, so that he could be proud
of me! Why is he not? What have I done wrong?

The realization turned me numb. I felt none of the pain when my heart
ached. I didn't bother to breathe. I didn't care if everything in
front of me was spinning.

All I saw was the reason why.

HE NEVER LOVED ME.

...

“I'm okay. I really am.” I hope College kills me already.

What have I done wrong?