Lychee Yogurt
When I'm five, my parents move to the city so my younger sister can go to preschool. They leave me behind in a mountain village with my grandma, who has dementia.
Before they go, Dad orders me to take care of Grandma, even though she barely knows where she is, and to look after the house and the yard.
Mom tells me I'm the big sister, so I need to be a good girl. She promises that once they have money, they'll bring me to the city too.
I don't want them to go, so I cling to Mom's leg and beg her with everything I have. "Mom, please, I don't want to be away from you."
Tears and snot run down my face, smearing across her 400-dollar dress. She scolds me for being a brat, spanks me until my bottom swells, and then slaps me hard enough to make my face bleed.
In the end, they don't give in, and they never come back.
Three months later, when I'm close to starving, I call Mom and beg her for something to eat.
She snaps at me, irritated. "All you ever do is whine about being hungry. What kind of girl acts like that? Why don't you just starve to death? How can there be nothing to eat out in the country?
"Your dad and I are under so much pressure here in the city. Can't you be a little more grown-up?"
Her words come true, and I starve to death in the bitter cold of that December.
Five years later, Mom pushes open the rotting front door.
"Elsie, I'm home."