Lately, Cixi had found herself asking a question she had never dared to voice aloud before.
Why had she been born? Or what purpose did her existence serve in her parents' household, where she seemed to occupy space but not their attention?
Her parents were not cruel in the way many stories were written, where a child was severely punished simply because he or she did not like cucumbers.
No, they did not beat her. They did not starve her deliberately.
They simply did not… see her…
They seemed to love each other deeply in their own way, so much so that there was probably no room for a third person like her. Their lives revolved around each other, and their arguments never seemed to end.
Her mother cursed men, calling them dogs and worse, and her father declared that women were trying too hard to become men, forgetting their 'place' in the world.
They had endless words for society and for each other. But none for her. She was never part of their conversation, which made her wonder if she was truly their biological child.
They did not ask how her day had gone or who her friends were.
They did not check whether she had eaten, or how her grades were, or how she was surviving in this lonely world.
She wanted to ask them. She wanted to know her importance in their lives. But fear held her back. She was sixteen and worried about what they might say — what if they told her she was not their real child? What if they asked her to leave their home? So, out of dread, she abandoned the thought and convinced herself that they were simply too busy.
"Cixi!" she heard her mother call as she walked into the apartment, nearly startling her out of her chair. Had she really called her? Or was she just imagining things? Cixi pondered.
"Cixi!" her mother called once more, sending shock waves. Was her mom actually calling her?
Her?!
Not her father, but her?
It felt so odd, especially in the evenings when her mother rarely said a word to her. In fact, she didn't talk to her much during the day either.
"Yes, Mom!" Cixi replied, stepping out of her room immediately.
"Grab your things! We are moving."
"What?!" She stared at her in disbelief, struggling to grasp what she had just uttered.
Before she could get an answer, her father walked in like a storm. "Have you not started packing yet?" he asked, staring at Cixi as if she had committed a grave offence.
"I—" she began, but her mother nudged her. "Go pack only the necessities. We are leaving now."
"Now?!" Her mind went blank, and before she could process the situation, her father called her name more sternly, snapping her back to reality.
She hurried into her room and began throwing her clothes and books into a bag.
In the blink of an eye, overnight, they moved from their small apartment to a nicer area where an upper-middle-class neighbourhood thrived.
From that day on, everything in their lives changed — except one thing.
They still had no time for her.
On holidays, they would sit at the dining table as a family. Sometimes they would smile at her, acknowledging her presence. They would eat, and she would quietly listen to their conversations, eagerly waiting for them to ask her something — anything. But that never happened.
And it hurt. It really hurt that they had nothing to say to her.
Soon, her father developed a new habit called gambling. Her mother began disappearing at night and sleeping during the day. And their absence became routine in her life.
She sometimes contemplated whether this was how families worked.
Or was her family the exception?
Time flew by, and before she knew it, her seventeenth birthday had arrived. This day was truly special to her. Regardless of how distant her parents might be throughout the year, that one day was all hers.
On her birthday, they would be eagerly waiting in the living room, with a cake carefully set out on the table and candles flickering on top.
It was the only day when the house felt warm, and her parents felt like her parents.
She dressed quickly in anticipation. And when she stepped out of her room, a smile claimed her face.
"Happy birthday, sweety!" her mother exclaimed, hugging her gently.
"Happy birthday, Cixi!" her father said politely before pulling them into a group hug.
"Thank you, Mom! Thank you, Dad!" she meant it.
"Look." Her mother stepped aside, her smile widening as she gestured toward the dining table. "Your favourite — Black Forest cake."
And she jumped in excitement.
Soon she made a wish, blew out the candles, cut the cake, and as they ate it for breakfast, her heart filled with warmth.
When they were done eating, she gathered the courage she had been storing for years. "Mom… Dad… I want to talk about something." She had decided that today would be the day she would finally ask them why she felt like a stranger in their lives.
Her parents exchanged a glance before her mother reached for her hand and placed hers gently over it.
"We want to talk to you too, sweety," she said in a gentle voice. "But not now. After you come back from school." Her mom squeezed her fingers to assure her of something. "We will go out for dinner tonight."
"Dinner? Really?" she almost jumped out of her chair in surprise.
Her special day, her seventeenth birthday, was going to be perfect after all. She could feel it.
The questions she had in mind suddenly felt like an unnecessary burden. Perhaps she had misunderstood everything about them. They had just been busy, and she had blown things out of proportion. At least now she knew how impulsive she could be at times.
*
The last bell of the school day rang, and before it faded into the corridors, she had already gathered her books and closed her bag. She did not linger as others did.
She rushed to the school bus stop and boarded the bus, barely containing her excitement. She found a seat by the window, though she scarcely looked outside.
Her thoughts were elsewhere. She wanted to know which restaurant they would go to. She even began planning what she might wear — the blue dress she had been saving, perhaps, or the cream one that made her feel older than seventeen. And before she knew it, her stop arrived.
She quickened her pace, almost breaking into a run because the thought of seeing them again filled her with warmth.
Then she saw them.
They were standing near the building's entrance, engaged in conversation with a man she did not recognise.
She slowed down without meaning to and, for a moment, simply watched them.
Had they been waiting for her? Her heart swelled at the thought.
She lifted her hand and waved at them. Their eyes found hers across the short stretch of pavement, and then they smiled.
They smiled at her and raised their hands to wave back. At that moment, she felt foolish for ever believing that she was not their actual child. How could she have been so stupid?
She took a single step, and the next second, a loud noise split the air.
The sound did not register as danger at first. Then a second loud sound followed, and her shoulders jerked upward. Her knees buckled, and she dropped to the ground. Her backpack slid from her shoulder and struck the pavement beside her, yet she scarcely felt it.
Another sound echoed, ringing in her ears. She pressed her hands against her head and squeezed her eyes shut, trembling without understanding what was happening.
Somewhere in the distance — or perhaps very near — she heard screams.
Slowly, she lifted her head, forcing her eyes to open.
And her world turned upside down.
On her seventeenth birthday, Cixi became an orphan.