In my previous life, my parents hid everything from me.

  The illness.

  The prognosis.

  The countdown.

  They thought they were protecting me.

  So when my father’s condition worsened, my mother decided that me staying at home was “too risky.” Risky for what? For noticing the medicine bottles? For overhearing conversations? For connecting the dots?

  Instead, she arranged for me to stay at my uncle’s house — her younger brother.

  At that time, I didn’t question it.

  What I did question, however, was her sudden generosity.

  I had been eyeing Mega Man Zero 4 for weeks.

  I expected resistance.

  Negotiation.

  At least a lecture about focusing on studies.

  Instead, she bought it almost immediately.

  Only one condition.

  “Go stay at Uncle’s house for a few weeks.”

  I agreed without hesitation.

  New cartridge > temporary relocation.

  That was the math of a Primary 4 mind.

  The game was excellent.

  Fast-paced.

  Precise.

  Punishing in a way that felt fair.

  I cleared it within days.

  Every boss memorized.

  Every pattern learned.

  Excitement, however, fades quickly when you’re ten.

  When the final boss fell and the credits rolled, the silence in that unfamiliar bedroom felt heavier than the game ever did.

  That was when I started noticing things.

  Subtle differences.

  Temperature differences.

  Tone differences.

  The atmosphere of a house that wasn’t mine.

  My uncle was fine.

  Neutral.

  Not particularly affectionate, but not hostile.

  His wife, however, was another story.

  She was not cruel in obvious ways.

  She was precise.

  Measured.

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  Polite on the surface.

  But distant.

  The kind of distant that makes you aware you are costing something simply by existing.

  An extra bowl of rice.

  An extra portion of vegetables.

  An extra shower.

  An extra utility bill.

  Even though my mother had already given them money for my stay, I could feel the unspoken calculation in the air.

  If someone as oblivious as I was back then could sense the difference between my own home and this one, then the difference must have been substantial.

  I felt like luggage stored temporarily in a guest room.

  Not family.

  Storage.

  My cousin, just a few years older than me, was permanently fused to his computer.

  He played Ragnarok Online almost every waking hour.

  The clicking of mouse and keyboard echoed through the house like background music.

  I tried.

  “Want to play together?”

  No response.

  “Teach me?”

  “Later.”

  Later never came.

  He was chasing digital monsters and online guild wars. I was chasing acknowledgment.

  We were in the same house but different worlds.

  Weeks passed.

  One evening during dinner, it happened.

  I still remember the sound of chopsticks against ceramic bowls.

  Steam rising from rice.

  Television murmuring in the background.

  Then my aunt said loudly, almost casually:

  “Someone’s father has died.”

  The sentence landed without cushion.

  Unfiltered.

  No gentleness.

  No pause.

  Just blunt delivery across the dinner table.

  It didn’t even register at first.

  Not fully.

  Not until shortly after, when my Nokia phone rang.

  My father.

  That call.

  In my previous life, I answered with irritation.

  I don’t even remember what I was upset about.

  Maybe boredom.

  Maybe feeling displaced.

  Maybe nothing important at all.

  He tried to speak.

  I cut him off.

  I hung up.

  That became my single biggest regret.

  The next time I saw him, he was inside a coffin.

  Back then, I thought the announcement at dinner meant I would finally return home.

  Surely now they would send me back.

  Surely now the temporary arrangement would end.

  I was wrong.

  Not only would I not return immediately —

  I would stay there until the end of Primary Year 6.

  New school.

  New classmates.

  New routines.

  Same cold household.

  My mother told me she had to go overseas to earn money.

  That she would eventually bring me along.

  But for now, this was necessary.

  Necessary is a heavy word for a child.

  It means you don’t get a vote.

  The small humiliations accumulated.

  One day, I opened the fridge and saw chocolate.

  I took one.

  Later, my aunt scolded me sharply.

  “That is for my son.”

  The message was clear.

  You are not included in default privileges.

  You require permission.

  Even for sugar.

  Then there was her twin sister.

  They looked nearly identical.

  Most people could barely tell them apart.

  But I could.

  My aunt was slightly more polished.

  Her twin sister was darker, heavier, and carried an expression that seemed permanently dissatisfied.

  Where my aunt was cold, her sister was openly abrasive.

  I used to leave a small gap in my bedroom door.

  Just enough so I didn’t feel completely sealed in.

  Whenever her sister visited, she would walk past and slam it shut.

  Every time.

  No words.

  Just force.

  The sudden bang would make my heart jump.

  A reminder.

  Close yourself properly.

  Don’t exist halfway.

  The house had arguments too.

  Loud ones.

  My uncle and his wife would quarrel.

  Voices raised.

  Objects thrown.

  Not at me.

  But near enough to make the air vibrate.

  I never got hit.

  But fear doesn’t require physical contact to form.

  Most days, I stayed inside my room.

  Door closed.

  Console on.

  Homework done quickly.

  Silence my default state.

  Ironically, the place I longed for most was school.

  Every night, I looked forward to morning.

  Because morning meant leaving that house.

  Morning meant classmates.

  Noise.

  Normalcy.

  Even if I wasn’t popular, even if I wasn’t exceptional, at least I wasn’t a burden there.

  At night, I used my small Nokia phone to call my mother.

  Those calls became lifelines.

  I told her everything.

  How Aunt scolded me.

  How Uncle argued again.

  How I felt unwelcome.

  How I couldn’t fit in.

  She listened.

  Soft voice through cheap speakers.

  Reassurances delivered across distance.

  “Be patient.”

  “Study hard.”

  “It’s temporary.”

  Temporary can feel eternal when you’re young.

  But I clung to those calls.

  They were proof I still belonged somewhere.

  Now, reliving this chapter with foreknowledge, the emotions are different.

  I understand the financial strain.

  The logistics.

  The desperation behind adult decisions.

  But understanding does not erase the memory of isolation.

  That house taught me something subtle and lasting:

  There is a difference between shelter and home.

  Shelter keeps you alive.

  Home lets you breathe.

  Back then, I survived.

  But I did not breathe freely again until much later.

  And every morning, as I stepped out of that house and walked toward a new school I barely knew, I felt a strange relief.

  Not because life was easy.

  But because at least for a few hours a day —

  I wasn’t an extra bowl of rice.