Dad Punishes Me With Endless Homework Hell

"Victor Rowland, have you finished all 200 math problems I assigned for today?"

Dad's low voice sounded like a demon gnashing its teeth just behind the door.

"Dad, I-I got carsick on the bus during our class trip today, so I only managed to…"

My voice trailed off as I clutched the fabric of my trousers with my clammy hands.

"You're always like that! Nothing but excuses!" Dad roared at me, his frightening eyes fixing me with a fierce, menacing glare as he snatched my schoolbag from me.

"And you got three wrong! How could you get such simple math problems wrong? How do you expect to surpass that woman's child like this?

"You'll be punished with another 20 problems for every mistake you made! Do another 60 before dinner, or don't bother eating at all!"

I hurriedly took my math workbook back, feeling a heavy, stifling sense of grievance well up inside me like a wad of wet cotton stuffed into my chest.

Before the class trip, I had assumed that everyone's parents were like this. I thought that every child had to complete a mountain of math problems every single day. But as it turned out, that wasn't the case at all.

Dad glanced at me, as if he could read my thoughts.

"What's the matter? You're feeling resentful seeing everyone else playing while you're stuck doing math problems, aren't you?

"Hah! Let me tell you, they're all good-for-nothing, useless pieces of garbage! If they aren't doing these math problems now, when will they? Every single problem you solve now puts you one step ahead of them!"

I wanted to tell Dad that my classmates weren't garbage or "good-for-nothings". Sometimes, when I ran into a difficult problem, I'd quietly ask my deskmate, Evie Addams. She'd glance at it, know the answer instantly, and whisper the solution to me.

But Dad never believed me. He always insisted that they were no good.

Another thick stack of math problems was placed before me.

Between the 50 I hadn't finished and the 60 new ones Dad had just assigned, that made 110 problems in total. And Dad said I wouldn't get any dinner if I didn't finish them first.

I scrunched up my face and rubbed my empty, rumbling stomach. I hadn't eaten lunch earlier today, afraid I wouldn't be able to finish my work in time. And now, it looked like I wouldn't be eating dinner, either.

But that was fine. I was already used to it. Teardrops splattered onto my workbook, blurring the ink into a small, smudged patch.

I didn't want to do my math problems anymore.

There was a photograph of two people together, tucked away in a dark corner of Dad's room. In it, Dad was wearing a guileless, goofy grin on his face, but the woman beside him had a large "X" scrawled across her face.

Behind the photo, I found a small slip of paper with a string of numbers written on it. I knew who it belonged to—the "wicked woman" Dad always talked about, the one who had apparently abandoned her husband and son at a young age.

I used to hate her for making Dad so sad, and it hadn't even occurred to me to look for her.

But now, I pulled an old, second-hand phone from beneath the bed, turned on the screen, and dialed the number.

"Hello? May I ask who this is?" the voice at the other end said.

"Mom… I don't want to do all the math problems anymore."

There was a sudden, sharp silence on the other end of the line.

My heart leaped into my throat.

"What's your father's name, little boy?"

"Mitchell Rowland."

A profound silence followed.

"Where do you live?"