No. I believe my dad will soon run out the door to stop me from leaving. It’s just taking a while for him to put on his shoes because he’s heavy. His eyes will be bloodshot, he will reach out to grab me, keeping me from leaving. I wait in the empty lot in front of my house, kicking around a deflated ball. The flat ball rolls over to the torn vinyl greenhouse. I have no energy to go after it. I’m hungry and my eyes hurt. I decide to believe that my father tried to run out after me, but my stepmother and aunt stopped him, saying things like, No, this is a good thing. We don’t need to pay her tuition any longer. She must be damaged goods by now, anyway. No one would want to marry her. It’s better to kick her out now. She needs some hardship to scare her straight.

Father wholeheartedly trusts whatever my stepmom says, like, “Things were fishy between Yeoul and Hyunwoo, even though they are supposed to be sister and brother. She must’ve coaxed naive Hyunwoo into changing his major. She must’ve asked for pocket money from him—why else would he have gotten a part-time tutoring job? That’s how he got into a car accident late at night!” If my stepmother said it, my father believed it. Even a lovesick, no, libido-sick fool like my father should be able to see how absurd these accusations are. Someday I will clear things up. There will be a chance for me to tell him everything.

It’s raining again, and the cold wind is blowing. Whether it was the camera that was swiped or how I’m swiping my tears, it doesn’t matter—it will rain, wind will blow, and once the rain stops, new, green leaves will sprout and spread. Aged trees will still bloom, fruits will grow off the branch and dangle helplessly before they fall. The old trees will bloom and fruit again. Stepmom once told me, If your father didn’t stop me, I would’ve had five more children with him. It was your fault I had to abort three of my children. She ripped my books and notebooks into shreds while glaring at me hatefully. I don’t think I will ever understand her obsession with having more children, but I can almost see why she hated me. My cat knew when I was ignoring her, and she ripped up the scratching mat with her fierce claws. If I step back and think about it, my stepmom is a sad person. Is God laughing at the sight of my stepmother’s aborted babies, bloody and torn? Is he saying, Come to me. I’m the Way. I shall save you? How much of a sick bastard is God? How awful can life be that humanity needed to come up with a fantasy like God?