Once the new gift was known to me, I could read my father’s moods—and my mother’s, too. As newlyweds they had been happy; had remained happy while raising their own children. But when my two sisters had married and gone off to have families of their own, there’d been nothing left between them: no love, just boredom and emptiness. Finding and adopting me had made them feel better for a while, but it hadn’t lasted.

Now at last I knew why my father beat me. I felt his pain. He’d been beaten by his own father and was scarred by that experience, and angry because he himself had never become a man of any consequence. He had dreamed of owning some land, but he worked for farmers who paid him a pittance. He felt bitter knowing that he would never be able to realize that dream.

He felt sorry for himself. He was a selfish pig, wallowing in self-pity, and he hurt others to lessen his own pain. But I saw too that he was a coward at heart. He would never strike a man. I was his easiest victim—along with my adoptive mother, whom he also slapped occasionally. Sometimes I heard raised voices from their bedroom, and in the morning she’d sob while making the breakfast, head bowed to hide her bruises.

Then I discovered my third gift.

I suppose I’d had it quite a while before I became aware of it. I had noticed for years that, on the way to market, when I smiled at people who seemed down in the dumps, they would cheer up. Hours later, on my way home, they still looked far brighter.

After meeting my real mother, I began to wonder. Could it be that I was having some effect on them?

Then I got proof that it was indeed so. At the market there was a stallholder who always looked so sad that I longed to cheer him up—especially as I knew exactly what was wrong with him.

His wife had died suddenly the previous year, and his children had all left home; he had nothing to brighten his life or give him hope. He’d once been a keen gardener, growing both produce and flowers to please his wife. On warm summer evenings, they used to sit in the garden together and watch the sun go down. It had been one of their greatest pleasures.

So I planted a seed of happiness in his mind.

Within days, he was planting his own seeds. By late summer his garden was in bloom, and in the autumn he was selling his own produce at market. He was smiling at everybody.

What I’d achieved with the stallholder had given me an idea. Instead of continuing to meet anger with anger, I would strive to help my false father. I would try to make him feel better inside. Then his attitude toward me might change . . . at least he might leave me alone.