Most of the time, I sat on a bench and listened to a boy play his guitar in hopes of being noticed. That guitar always fascinated me.
At my old school, we had the chance to learn an instrument during music class, but the guitar wasn’t an option. I wanted so badly to play something that I settled for learning the recorder, tambourine, and triangle.
I couldn’t take instruments home, so I would linger in the music room after class, practicing the recorder.
At the park, instead of just listening to the boy, I would grab a stick and an old can, trying to make music myself.
No one paid attention to me. Some women even scolded me for waking their children, but I never stopped.
When there is music, negative thoughts fade away. They are muffled, and there’s no time to think about how much life is falling apart or how much of a mess my mind is.
Of course, the consequences of running away or being late from school were never good once I returned home. But I had gotten used to it.
I didn’t know how to react anymore. Every slap, every fistful of hair ripped out, every word—each one hurt.
I don’t know when the pain stopped mattering. At some point, I just stopped running, stopped begging him not to hurt me. I simply let him.
I no longer had the strength to protect myself. I didn’t even know whether it was more important to shield my face from punches or my heart from his insults. So I gave up, and he continued.
In a way, I retreated into a bubble of apathy, setting aside all emotion just to stop suffering. All I could feel was sadness. Even today, that’s all I feel.
Although Daniel and Chris saved my life, something inside me broke the moment my mother left home and my father gave me that first punch in the stomach, telling me it was all my fault.
I couldn’t make a sound the day social services took me to the orphanage. I was upset, too tired to explain how I felt, but I think they knew anyway.
After all, it’s not every day your father tries to slit your wrists with a kitchen knife.
I spent a few months in the orphanage. During that time, I didn’t make friends. Even the other children looked at me differently, as if my story was worse than theirs just because my father tried to make me kill myself.
They acted as if their stories were an episode of Friends compared to mine.
I never wanted pity. I knew what my past was, but it wasn’t more tragic than theirs. It was just traumatic in its own way. I didn’t want attention. I just wanted to go unnoticed and survive as long as I could.
Until the day my fathers brought me a chocolate brownie for a snack. It was the same as what the other children received, but I still remember the way Daniel and I exchanged a look when he handed it to me.
I remember Chris’s smile as I unwrapped it and took a bite, smearing chocolate on my mouth.
I remember how I flinched when he reached out with a handkerchief to wipe my face, covering myself in fear of being hit. But Chris pulled away, giving me space, while Daniel placed a packet of colored tissues in my lap before sitting beside his husband—my father.
I can’t explain why I drew their attention, but I know they kept visiting every single day after that. For the first time in my life, I felt an emotion that wasn’t sadness, though I didn’t know what to call it.
I hardly remember the adoption process, only the orphanage director’s words when she called me into her office: “The Coopers want to give you a home. They want you to be their son and part of their family.”
It was hard to recognize Chris and Daniel as fathers. The only father figure I knew had tried to kill me. I had no good example, and I was terrified of men. The irony is that if I survive another twenty years, I’ll be a man too. I was terrified of the idea of becoming like him. I’m still afraid of becoming like him.
I don’t know how I feel about Daniel and Chris. I’m grateful for their kindness, but I still struggle to believe them when they say, “I love you” or “I’m proud of you, honey-bee.”
They’re present in every part of my life. They taught me English with a private tutor, bought me clothes, made me eat foods I’d only seen in magazines my father stole from neighbors’ mail. They took me to the movies and let me watch TV with them. They tucked me in every night.
When we moved to San Francisco, I learned I would have a dog named Percy and my own room. I would no longer sleep on an old couch or in a doghouse. Our house was big, with a huge front and backyard.
The day we arrived, a strange little girl ran to the car. Chris and Daniel greeted her warmly, showering her with sweet words.
I felt jealous, afraid I had already been replaced before I even stepped out. But when I looked into her eyes, I felt a strange shiver down my spine.
She was smiling, but her eyes were full of sadness. It was as if they were quietly weeping. I had never seen a girl carry so much sorrow. Or wear such a convincing mask. She was clearly a gifted liar. The kind who lies to survive.
Chris called her a ray of sunshine, and he was right, but I had no idea then how much she would change my life.
