Dad, the day I slipped and fell in front of my aunt’s room, I was going to get up and sneak into class, but through the crack in the door, I accidentally saw a scene that made my heart choke. She stood in the middle of the living room, her hands clasped tightly to the edge of the table, her eyes red. On the desk were piles of letters and bank statements. Aunt hugged her face and cried and whispered to herself:

“Many years of hard work… but it was still alone. He promised to leave it, promised not to let his mother and children suffer… but now it’s a home for her son. How can you bear it? I’m raising you so much, do you need some security for your life?”

I stood silent. My aunt’s words were like a knife to my heart. It turns out that my aunt is harsh with me not because I am naughty, not because I am “unworthy” as my aunt always pleads in front of everyone. She was afraid — afraid of having no place to lean on, afraid that her previous promises would be overwhelmed, afraid that her future would be nothing when she was old and weak. I see you as a threat to the “safety” of my life.

Then the aunt continued, her voice hoarse like someone strangled:
“They say you will provide for her child the most, leaving a home for her. I’ve sacrificed a lot, now I want some assurance for you and myself. If everyone comes to ask for it, do you know how to live?”

I heard it and tears flowed down my face. All the times she was sarcastic, depriving her of food, making her stand forever, the nights she opened the bathroom door to check—now there was a pattern: it was fear and ambition, disguised as strictness. She wasn’t just “cruel” for no reason — she turned out to be the one who was pushed into a position where she had to choose between herself and compassion, and the people who were hurt were you and your brother.

I feel both angry and sad. Angry because you and I are being paid for the worries of adults; I love because I know that my aunt is also afraid of loss. But whatever the reason, Dad—you and I don’t deserve to be tortured, isolated for adults to snatch our safety.

I don’t want the story to be just a misunderstanding and then everything goes on. I’m writing to let you know the truth: your mistreatment of me isn’t just a matter of discipline or severity—it’s the result of a series of worries, fears, and calculations that I can’t bear.