Five Years Too Late
When I was five, Mom and Dad took my little brother to the city for kindergarten and left me in a mountain village with my grandfather, who had dementia.
Before they left, Dad told me to take care of Grandpa, watch the house, and protect the yard.
Mom said I was the older brother, so I had to be sensible.
They said that once they made enough money, they'd bring me to the city too.
I didn't want to let go. I clung to Mom's leg and begged through tears, "Mom, please. I don't want to be separated from you."
My tears and snot smeared across her expensive dress.
She scolded me for being difficult, slapped my bottom until it swelled, and struck my face hard enough to break the skin.
In the end, they didn't soften.
They left and never came back.
Three months later, when I was close to starving, I called Mom and begged her to send me something to eat.
She snapped, irritated, "A boy who talks about being hungry every day? Why don't you just starve, then? How can there be nothing to eat in the countryside?
"Your father and I are under so much pressure in the city. Can't you be sensible for once?"
Her words came true.
That winter, I starved to death.
Five years later, Mom pushed open the rotten door.
"Miles," she called. "Mom's back."