Chapter 2

The moment I sent the apology, the family group chat was reopened to everyone else.

The glaring thumbs-up emojis and endless praise for my "good behavior" felt like slap after slap to my dignity.

Aunt Ada wrote, "Shiloh isn't a bad kid at heart. She just needs some discipline."

Uncle Eric wrote, "Young people make mistakes. As long as they learn from them, that's what matters!"

Cousin Margot wrote, "That's great, Shiloh. Don't make Aunt Ursula and Uncle Kevin worry about you again."

Mom held her phone, admiring her victory with satisfaction. "See? Everyone's forgiven you. Shiloh, I'm doing this for your own good. You may hate us now, but when you grow up, you'll realize that nobody out there will teach you how to behave like we do."

I said nothing.

All I could think about was the notification showing that Aunt Janey had been removed from the group chat. The only person in the entire family who had stood up for me had been kicked out in a second.

"Alright, that's enough. You can get up now," Dad said.

He sat on the couch, fiddling with the screwdriver. "Go eat. You made a mistake, but that doesn't mean we'll starve you. We're not the kind of parents who abuse their kids."

I forced myself to stand. My knees had gone numb from kneeling for so long, and I limped toward the dining table. All that remained on the table was a plate of unseasoned pasta and a heap of leftover pork on top.

To be more accurate, it was nothing but pork fat. The pale, greasy chunks sat in the cold gravy, covered by a thick layer of congealed white fat.

Mom said coldly, "Eat. Don't waste it. Meat isn't easy to come by during the holidays. There's a special place in hell for people who waste food."

As I stared at the plate, my stomach churned uncomfortably. I'd never been able to eat fatty meat. It always made me throw up.

However, I didn't dare to be picky.

When I was five, I'd picked out the fatty pieces and left them on the table. Dad had grabbed the back of my head and shoved my face into the plate, forcing me to swallow every last piece.

He'd said, "Being picky means you're spoiled. It means you've never known hunger. In my house, there will be no disgusting habits like that."

I picked up the fork and stabbed at a piece of pork fat with it. Then, I closed my eyes and shoved it into my mouth. Suppressing the urge to vomit, I forced myself to swallow it whole.

"Slow down. What are you, some starving beggar who hasn't eaten in days? You have absolutely no table manners. I'd be embarrassed to take you anywhere." Dad's disgusted voice came from the living room.

I swallowed the last piece of pork fat and fought back the nausea. "I'm done eating."

Mom said, "Good. Go make the pelmeni. Guests are coming tomorrow for New Year's Day, so you need to make 300 of them tonight."

Ignoring the sharp pain in my lower back, I walked over to the kitchen counter. The dough had already been rested, and a huge bowl of meat filling sat ready.

I picked up the rolling pin and started rolling out the wrappers, but my hands wouldn't stop shaking. The back of my hand was swollen, and I could barely muster any strength in my stiff knuckles.

The wrappers came out uneven. Some were so thin in the middle that I could almost see through them, while the edges were thick. I gritted my teeth, picked up a wrapper, and tried to pinch the edges together.

The moment I applied a little pressure…

Pop!

The wrapper tore, and the meat filling oozed out, smearing grease all over my hands.