Desperate for Approval

When my dad video called me, I was squatting on the floor of my dormitory room, scraping out toothpaste.

There was just a bit of that white paste left on my fingertips.

Before I could apply it to my toothbrush, my phone buzzed, and one word popped up on the screen: Dad.

I answered the call.

His first question wasn’t whether I’d eaten. It was, “Jessica Larson, why did you buy three packets of tissues?”

My hand hung in midair.

My dormitory room door was ajar, and I could hear people laughing and chatting along the corridor. It was lovely and bustling like another completely different world.

I said in a low voice, “Dad, these are daily necessities.”

“I asked you why you bought three packets of tissues?”

He furrowed his brows, as though interrogating a liar.

“Are you able to finish them all in one month? Or are you trying to accumulate stuff, thinking I’m not noticing?”

My face flushed.

My elder brother, Vince Larson, poked his head out from behind my dad. He was laughing so hard that his shoulders kept shaking. “Dad, don’t be so serious. She’s on the verge of tears from your interrogation.”

My youngster sister, Veronica Larson, was seated on the couch with a cup of iced coffee in her hands, biting the straw and making crunching sounds.

“Jessica, don’t blame Dad. He’s just worried that you’ll be a spendthrift. You didn’t grow up in the city, and no one taught you that there’s a limit to spending money.”

She then waved her coffee in front of her camera.

There was a price tag on the cup.

$5.

When I bought coffee costing $2, my dad circled it out.

He left a remark: [Unnecessary expenditure. To be deducted from next month’s allowance.]

I stared at her coffee as I felt my throat constrict.

My dad didn’t scold her, nor did he even cast a glance her way.

He fixed his gaze on me and said, “Jessica, rewrite the cost breakdown again.

“Four and a half dollars for breakfast is too much. There’s bread at school.

“Fifty dollars for your phone bill is too much. Don’t chat so much with others.

“Be more detailed regarding hygiene products. Don’t be vague.”

I heard myself ask softly, “Dad, must I?”

His face darkened with displeasure at once.

“You’re embarrassed now, huh? Why didn’t you feel embarrassed when you were spending money?”

Aunt Jensen sighed.

“Jessica, it’s not that your dad can’t part with his money. He’s just worried that you’ll be led astray by bad influence. The moment girls learn to compare with others, that's when the money will be gone with the wind.”

I wanted to say that I wasn’t comparing myself with anyone.

I never dared to.

My canvas bag was so old that my grandmother had to help me fix the zip twice.

When my sole separated from my shoe, I had to superglue it back.

Even the lady at the dining hall secretly gave me slightly more food because she noticed that I always picked the cheapest dishes.

But I swallowed my words back.

I knew it was pointless saying that.

From my dad's perspective, explaining myself was making excuses, and my silence was a sign of a guilty conscience, while crying was a way to gain sympathy.

I clicked open my spreadsheet and filled it in, row by row.

Bread, $2.

Vegetables, $6.

Public transport, $3.

Hygiene products, $19.90.

Were they necessary? Yes.

Ten minutes later, my dad transferred me $800.

His remarks: Tentatively approved.

He then sent another text: [The remaining $400 will be subject to your performance.]

I stared at his text and suddenly recalled what happened when we were young.

I lived with my grandmother in an old house in a small town.

Every New Year’s Eve, my dad would come home and caress my head as he said, “Be good, Jessica. I'll bring you home once things have settled down on my end.”

He subsequently bought a car and a house, and Vince had his own computer room, while Veronica had a wardrobe full of dresses.

Meanwhile, I was still waiting in the old house.

I used to think that the lights in the city were too far and he couldn’t see me.

I finally realized that it wasn’t because he couldn’t see me.

Instead, I had never made it to his list.

At night, I stumbled upon his social media account.

He had published a collage of nine photos including one of the beach, one of a hotel, and one of a ceiling-height window.

Vince was wearing a new pair of shoes, and Veronica had a camera in her lap, while Aunt Jensen was wearing a shiny new bangle.

My dad wrote a caption that read: [If my children want it, they’ll have it as long as I can afford it.]

I stared at it for a long time.

The toothpaste tube that was all flattened out laid on the table.

It looked like it was all drained of life, like me.

I finally understood.

It wasn’t that he didn’t want to give his children money to spend.

Instead, he wanted me to acknowledge, with every cent he gave me, that I was inferior to them.