Daddy—I have to tell you a terrible thing that happened

Dad, I’m scared, but I can’t hide it anymore. Every morning when she ate, her step-aunt would tell her to dig up a little rice and laugh sarcastically: “You don’t deserve to eat enough.” She also whispered in my brother’s ear, “Get away from this guy,” as if you were trash in the house. I gritted my teeth to be silent, trying to swallow every grain of bitter rice without opening my mouth.

But one night, when Dad was working late at night and the house was in darkness, I couldn’t sleep. I saw my little brother crying, so I crept down the stairs. I was going to go into my room to hug her, but through the crack in the door, I saw a scene that made my heart stop beating.

The step-aunt stood in the living room, the yellow light shining on her cold hard face. My brother was trembling, his eyes were red. She raised her hand and shouted loudly, her voice full of pressure, and pushed me toward the bed—I tried to dodge but slipped. I didn’t have time to shield. I saw you bending down and hugging your stomach, your face smiling. The aunt rushed over, and said in a harsh voice: “Don’t make a joke, if you still cry, there will be more things.” Then my aunt closed the door to my room so hard that the whole house trembled.

I stood outside, my legs as if I wanted to be petrified. I want to rush in and hug you, I want to scream to call you back, but I’m afraid you’ll find out I’m out of the room and will punish you both. I feel both helpless and angry — that is, because I don’t deserve it, helpless because I’m young and don’t know what to do right to protect me without making things worse.

Dad, I’m not telling this story to make you sad or to cause trouble. I told it because I needed you to know the truth: the teasing at the meal, the words that urged me to stay away, and especially the scene that night when my aunt used her power to intimidate me—it was all more than I could bear. I’m afraid I’ll be hurt more, I’m afraid that something worse will happen one day.

I need you to intervene. I need you to see me, hug me, tell me that everything will be fine; I need you to talk seriously to my aunt to stop the scolding, the nights when you have to cry silently. I know you’re busy, you have responsibilities at work, but I want you to take some time for the safety of the two of you.

If you can’t come home right away, please tell me what you’re going to do—call your grandmother, call your relatives, or at least call and beg your aunt to stop. I need a promise to have hope. I’m afraid to keep this fear alone anymore.

I beg you — don’t let the two of you suffer any more. I need adults to stand by me and me.