Letter to My Parents

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I don’t know if I ever told you about the Parents’ Day celebration that time you went on vacation. At school, all of us practiced our dance moves for the Parents’ Day show. Our faces were covered with layers of makeup, thick like paste, thanks to the makeup man who painted bright circular red blotches on our cheeks, thickened our eyebrows with kohl and outlined the eyes so they popped like crow feathers on beige-peach skin. My friends spotted their parents and asked me where mine were. I saw Grandma in the auditorium stand up to get my attention. She waved at me. I pretended not to see her so my friends wouldn’t ask me why Grandma was attending instead of you, so they wouldn’t know you were away without me, or that you took my little brother along because he was younger and had autism and needed you more.

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I don’t know if you remember that vacation. When you left me behind and told me it was for my own good: “if you study and pass your exams we will take you along next time.” After your car drove off and grandma closed the front door, I went into the room with the old trunks and switched on a dim light bulb that cast creepy shadows into the corners. I placed my suitcase on top of a wooden trunk and cried. When I came out, I heard Grandpa ask Grandma why my face looked long, grumpy and swollen.

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I don’t know if you ever knew I dreamed of running away back then, me a ten-year old, of opening the car, getting into the driver’s seat and driving away, into the forests, where no one could find me. I wanted to build a hut of twigs and banana leaves, that held together with wet mud. The small hut would be all I need. I would cook rice on a mud stove, squat in the corner and sleep on a mat. I wanted to run away because I knew you will not miss me, or even notice I was gone.

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Decades have passed. My therapist told me it would help me heal to write this.

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I don’t know.

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