Trying to narrow the widening gap between himself and Mom, Dad sent her to night school and encouraged her to enroll in self-study exams. She did this in fits and starts for many years, but didn’t pass a single one. Finally she had me and stopped trying, which must have been a relief. She thought I was her lucky star and would bring her good fortune. Nothing could be further from the truth. After I started school, Mom would flip through my textbooks, but even after so many years, she still had nightmares about exams. She also had bad dreams about losing children—so as not to distract my dad from his studies, she’d had two abortions. I often thought either of those babies would probably have been a better child than me.

As far back as I can remember, I’ve always known my father didn’t love my mother. They only lived together because they were married. I thought marriage must be like our school uniform—it never fit properly, but you still had to wear it. As I got older, I learned to look at Mom through Dad’s eyes, and saw what an irredeemable bumpkin she was. Sometimes she forgot to brush her teeth, and she never dried her face with a towel after washing it. She was unable to remember what different containers were for, and would serve orange soda in a bowl or roast pork in a washbasin. She never turned on the lights, seeming to require less illumination than city folk. Her idea of meals was different too—she’d often shovel down her food standing at the stove, then wash her plate with an air of relief. She could be stingy, saving up the polystyrene netting that apples came in and using it to wash dishes and scrub the stove, collecting dishwater to flush the toilet. I knew Dad hated this behavior, but had given up saying anything about it. These daily annoyances nibbled, termite-like, at his affection for her. By the time I was born, it had all been eaten away.

In my memory, my childhood home was always quiet. Only inanimate objects spoke—the TV, washing machine, and coal stove. After we got a phone installed, I used to long for someone to call Dad so I could hear his voice. Sometimes he even laughed. I admired the people who phoned, for being able to make him laugh. Mom and I lacked that ability. My parents didn’t talk much. Mom was chatty, but whenever she tried to start a conversation, he’d kill it.

“You don’t understand.” “Don’t ask any more.” “Can’t you leave me in peace?”

These were the words Dad said to Mom most often. Sometimes she’d force a smile in response, then go over to the window and shut the curtains tightly, or else sigh emptily, pick up her clippers, and start cutting her nails. She never seemed to get angry. She’d put her self-respect away long ago, tucking it somewhere it couldn’t be seen. Her indifference made pity impossible. I never once felt sorry for her.