My father didn’t like me. From kindergarten to college graduation, he never shared a single meal with me, nor did he celebrate any of my birthdays. When other children nestled in their fathers’ arms to fall asleep, I cried alone in the dark little bedroom, clutching my stuffed toy tightly. My father was always busy with work. He was the CEO of a public company, a big and important boss, highly accomplished. My classmates would comfort me, saying it was normal. Their parents were the same. But their parents hired kind and caring nannies to look after them, to prepare delicious meals, and to tuck them into bed every night. I wasn’t so lucky. In kindergarten, I was sent to daycare. Once I started elementary school, I boarded at school full-time. My time with my father was already painfully limited, and he never hired a warm-hearted nanny to care for me. As I grew older, my understanding deepened. I gradually came to realize that my father didn’t like me. He didn’t love me. For over a decade, this truth remained constant. But just now, an opportunity presented itself. My father’s first love’s daughter was diagnosed with kidney failure and needed a transplant. Kidneys weren’t easy to match, so my father arranged for all blood relatives to be tested. None of them were a match. In the end, I was the only one left. Perhaps it was fate. I was a match. The moment he saw the report, a light ignited in his eyes, one that was difficult to describe. He looked at me and said in a low voice. “Ava, if you’re willing to donate your kidney, I’ll do anything you want.” For a fleeting moment, countless images flashed through my mind. Elegant necklaces in display cases, luxurious gowns, dazzling sports cars, even the clear-eyed, gentle boy I admired. But as those countless desires dissolved, my thoughts settled on a single word: Dad. I looked up at the man before me, whose face resembled mine by seven-tenths. “Dad,” I said. “I want you to love me.” Such a childish request. The moment the words left my mouth, I realized just how twisted my longing for his missing love had become. He froze, surprised by what I had said, but he nodded nonetheless. “Alright, as long as you’re willing to donate. “I’m your father. Of course, I’ll love you.”
My father, Robert Davis. In his youth, he was the heir to the Davis Group. During college, he met his first love, Sarah Williams. The two fell in love at first sight, quickly starting a passionate romance that became the source of many dramatic rumors on campus. But with Robert’s high-profile status, how could his marriage ever be a matter of personal choice? Adding to that, Sarah’s family was impoverished, making their union even more impossible. Robert fought against his parents for three years but eventually conceded, agreeing to an arranged marriage. The chosen bride was my mother, Emma Thompson, a pampered daughter from a wealthy family. Though she wasn’t thrilled about the arranged marriage, she didn’t oppose it either. Over time, she even fell in love with Robert, cooking for him, taking care of the household, and becoming the epitome of a virtuous wife. Their marriage, respectful and cooperative, became a model example of arranged unions. Until the day my mother gave birth to me when everything changed. From the moment her water broke to the onset of labor pains, Robert was nowhere to be found. Calls to his phone went unanswered. It wasn’t until the moment she was wheeled into the operating room that Robert finally called back. “Sorry,” he said. “Sarah’s back.” In the end, my mother died in the delivery room due to complications. The Thompson family was enraged upon hearing the news. In their fury, they immediately severed all ties with the Davis Group and deliberately sabotaged their operations, causing catastrophic losses. At the time, Robert’s parents had just passed away, and he had only recently taken over the company. His inexperience left him vulnerable, making it a perilous time for the Davis Group. The Thompson family’s ruthless actions plunged the company into chaos, leaving Robert in shambles as he was berated by the board and overwhelmed by the pressure. Previously, he had always been seen as a golden boy. Overnight, he became a laughingstock, a man incapable of keeping his house or his company in order. Because of this, he grew to despise my mother. He claimed that she had done it on purpose, dying on the operating table just to humiliate him. And that, perhaps, was the beginning of why my father didn’t love me.
Before the surgery. In the hospital ward, I looked at the girl on the bed beside mine. Her entire being exuded frailty—hollow cheeks and a thin body that seemed as if a mere gust of wind could topple her. I remembered her name: Iris, a name as beautiful as she was. Robert and Sarah first met on a sunny day after a rainstorm, with a rainbow arcing across the sky. Even the name they gave their daughter was imbued with love. My father and Sarah hovered anxiously by her bedside, their faces etched with worry. “I’m scared, Mom and Dad,” Iris murmured, her voice trembling. Tears streamed down Sarah’s face as she pulled Iris into her arms. “Don’t be scared, Iris. Just think of it as taking a nap. When you wake up, everything will be better.” Robert’s expression was softer and more tender than I had ever seen. He leaned down and embraced the frail girl. “Be good, Iris. Once you’re better, Dad will take you to Disneyland.” I stood there, silently watching the scene, unblinking. A sour ache welled up in my chest, catching in my throat, neither swallowable nor spit-out-able. I could not understand why. Why was it that we were both his daughters, yet… I wanted to say something. “I am scared too. “Having an organ taken out of my body. I am terrified, Dad. “Can you hold me, too? “If you will just hold me, I won’t be afraid anymore. Really, I won’t.” But I couldn’t say it. I knew those who were unloved had no right to ask. “It’s okay, though. Once the surgery is over, Dad will love me.” I kept comforting myself with this thought. The surgery ended quickly. As the anesthesia wore off, the pain arrived late but steady, creeping over my entire body like a blade twisting inside me. I couldn’t hold back anymore. Tears slipped from the corners of my eyes. “Dad… Dad…” I called out unconsciously, over and over, until I blacked out again. When I opened my eyes again half an hour later, I saw the broad back of a man standing in the ward. Hearing the movement, Robert turned around. There was a hint of hesitation in his expression, but eventually, his features softened as he approached the bed. “How are you feeling? Does it hurt?” he asked. I smiled instantly, my heart racing as if the entire world had suddenly brightened. I whimpered softly, “Dad, it hurts. “Dad, Dad, Dad, Dad… It hurts so much…” I couldn’t stop myself. I kept calling him, over and over, as if trying to reclaim the fatherly love I had been denied for so many years. During my two-week hospital stay, I experienced a happiness I had never felt before. Every day, my father would visit me and bring a bowl of hot chicken soup. Although he always left right after setting the soup down, I still cherished those moments, treasuring them deeply. Two weeks later, I was discharged. I kept up my old habit of texting my father daily. This time, he occasionally replied, unlike before, when there was only silence. For the first time, I felt like I truly existed. People said that love could make someone bloom, filling the empty spaces with warmth and vitality. I thought maybe it would happen to me, too. I locked my depression diagnosis report away in a drawer, feeling as though the sunlight outside had never been so bright. The day after tomorrow would be my seventeenth birthday. I nervously sent him a text message. [Dad, the day after tomorrow is my birthday. Can I have dinner with you?] Hours later, a single word finally appeared on my phone: [Okay.] I leaped with joy. I decided to prepare a home-cooked meal for my father. Over the years, being alone for so long, I had always found ways to keep myself occupied. Cooking was my greatest talent. I started drafting a menu in advance and nervously contacted my father’s assistant to inquire about his food preferences. After all, I had never shared a proper meal with him before, so even figuring out what he liked to eat required outside help. It sounded strange. When I dialed the assistant’s number, I was unbearably anxious. I was not sure whether his assistant knew about the state of my relationship with Dad. What if he asked questions? How would I respond? Thankfully, the assistant didn’t ask anything. He kindly and patiently answered my questions. “It’s fine,” I thought to myself. From now on, I’ll remember every dish Dad loves, and I’ll make them for him every day. I also ordered a birthday cake for myself in advance. I figured, what if Dad got too busy with work and didn’t have time to order one? After preparing everything, the long-awaited evening of my birthday finally arrived. I spent the entire day cooking. Looking at the table full of steaming dishes, I felt a deep sense of accomplishment. The cake had arrived as well—a beautiful pink creation topped with intricately carved figurines of my father and me. The figurines were smiling warmly, brimming with tenderness. It was ten minutes before the agreed time of 10 PM. I waited, anxious yet excited. When the doorbell rang, I practically jumped up to answer it. But the face at the door was unfamiliar. A young man stood there, pushing a multi-tiered cake that was clearly expensive. He offered a polite, apologetic smile. “Sorry, Ms. Davis. Mr. Davis couldn’t make it today. He asked me to deliver this cake as a birthday gift for you.” I froze, my heart sinking to rock bottom. Holding back tears, I thanked him and saw him out. Back in the living room, I stared at the beautiful cake and tried to console myself. “It’s okay, Ava. Dad is just too busy. It’s fine. “There will be other opportunities.” But all those words of comfort and optimism disintegrated the moment I opened Instagram. Before the surgery, Sarah had added me on Instagram. She had been so grateful for my willingness to donate a kidney, saying we should keep in touch and that she could treat me like her own daughter. Now, her Instagram sat there quietly, every word in her latest post dripping with joy. [Family dinner, celebrating our darling Iris’s successful recovery…] Accompanying the caption was a selfie of the three of them at a restaurant. Sarah’s face radiated happiness, while the man behind her and the girl beside him wore matching smiles. I couldn’t even begin to describe what I felt. It was as if an invisible hand had squeezed my heart, making it ache painfully and leaving me gasping for air. It was like a dream I had painstakingly woven, suddenly shattering in an instant, leaving nothing but the jagged pieces that wrapped around me tightly, with no way to escape. I stared at my phone, unblinking, unwilling to accept it. Reluctantly, I started composing another message. [Dad, didn’t you say you would spend my birthday with me?] [Dad, I received the cake, it’s beautiful. I want to eat it with you…] [Dad, I made a lot of dishes you like.] [Dad, can you come over, just for a little while?] One message after another was sent, but there was still no reply. I couldn’t stop myself from calling, but all I got was a cold, impersonal voicemail. Time passed, minute by minute. The second hand reached twelve. My birthday was over. Outside the window, everything was still, silent. The cold moonlight poured in, casting a chill that swallowed the warmth of the room. I walked back to the table, silently lighting the candles, one by one, placing them on the small cake in between the two little figurines. I softly began to sing. “Happy birthday to you… Happy birthday to you… Happy birthday…” My fingers trembled as I cut myself a piece of cake. I ate it slowly, then took a bite of the vegetables. The food had long since cooled, and the taste was far from good. A sharp pang hit my nose, and the sourness in my throat could no longer be suppressed. Tears spilled from my eyes, falling uncontrollably onto the table. The next day, Robert came home. In the living room, the expensive, multi-layered cake stood quietly, untouched. He frowned and cast a nonchalant glance at me, barely acknowledging my presence. “What’s this? Don’t like the cake?” I shook my head, keeping my gaze lowered as I continued eating the leftover food from last night, which I had reheated. He became impatient. “What’s with the attitude? I had something important to take care of last night. I even had someone deliver the cake to you. What more do you want?” “What more do I want?” I chewed on his words, a bitter smile creeping up on my face. Robert, seeing that I didn’t respond, grew colder in tone. “I think I’ve spoiled you too much. Now that you’re better, go back to school. Don’t go around creating trouble and making me frustrated. Iris is much easier to deal with than you.” With that, he turned and walked out of the room without another word. I opened my mouth, but no sound came out. I wanted to tell him that I had already graduated from senior high school, that I had just received my acceptance letter, and that there was still a long time before school started. But he didn’t care. He didn’t know. The acceptance letter sat on my desk, from a well-regarded school. My classmates had long since made plans for college, and their parents couldn’t wait to boast about their children’s good grades to the world. I had planned to show him the letter last night, but now it seemed pointless. After finishing my meal and cleaning up the kitchen, I stood up, and immediately, the world spun around me. My body gave way, and I collapsed to the floor. It took me half an hour to gather the strength to get back up. This wasn’t the first time. After I donated my kidney, my health had noticeably worsened. I often felt weak, dizzy, bloated, and fatigued. I initially thought these were just side effects that would pass with time. But as the days passed, the symptoms only grew worse. In the mirror, I saw how much weight I had lost. My once-round face now revealed a sharp chin. I couldn’t help but think back to my middle school days. I was much heavier back then, with a round face, an early-developed chest, and a shorter stature. I looked awkward and bulky. No wonder the boys didn’t like me. The first sign came during PE class when the movement of my chest was too noticeable. The boys would stare, whispering behind my back, grinning with lewd expressions. From then on, I got a new nickname: “Big Boobs.” Many of my classmates were from the same elementary school, and they knew all about me. At parent-teacher meetings, I was always alone. On sports days, I was always in the corner. During the holidays, no one ever came to pick me up, and I had to drag my heavy luggage to the taxi by myself. They took every opportunity to mock me, calling me a wild child, an orphan. They needed someone to make them feel superior. And that gave them the confidence to escalate their cruelty. In the quiet, lonely nights, only I knew the pain. I clearly remember a new transfer student who couldn’t stand it and spoke up for me. “Your dad is Robert? The big boss of Davis Group? My uncle’s company has worked with Davis Group! “My God, why don’t you tell your dad? “If you tell him, he could take care of it. Those people wouldn’t dare to bully you!” That kind-hearted girl said to me. And all I could do was turn away, silent for a long time. Finally, I muttered quietly. “My dad… he’s too busy.” Sarah invited me over for dinner. On the phone, her voice was gentle, tinged with warmth. After much hesitation, I agreed to go. Their house was big, but unlike the cold, empty place I called home, it radiated warmth. The decorations were cozy, and every detail spoke of the love and care within the family. A faint sense of envy stirred in my heart. After my mother died, Sarah returned from abroad, bringing with her a delicate, doll-like girl named Iris. Sarah, in tears, clung to Robert and told him that Iris was their daughter. Before long, they married as a matter of course. Meanwhile, I was left sobbing endlessly in a boarding house. When Sarah opened the door, she was still wearing an apron. Her smile was soft as she asked me to sit down, saying she had a few more dishes to finish cooking. I nervously clutched my hands, sitting stiffly, my eyes wandering around the room. The walls were covered with awards and hand-drawn pictures. The drawings, starting with wobbly lines and gradually becoming more polished, all depicted the same theme: a family of three. It was easy to tell they were Iris’s work. Iris, who was a year older than me, had just finished her first year of college, studying fine arts. Sarah emerged from the kitchen suddenly, waving her hand. “Ava, if you’re bored, why not go upstairs and see Iris? You’ve done such a huge favor for her; she’s been wanting to thank you in person.” I averted my gaze and nodded. Upstairs, the door to Iris’s room was open. She was sitting quietly, painting. Her side profile was serene and lovely. I stood frozen in the doorway, unsure of what to say. Noticing me, she turned and waved. “Hey, Ava, you’re here!” Her voice was warm and intimate, but it made me feel a little uneasy. Iris walked over, hooked her arm around mine, and led me to her easel. “Look at this! Isn’t it pretty?” The painting on the canvas was stunning. The colors were vivid, the strokes meticulous, and the imagery lifelike. It depicted a family of three, just like the ones in the living room, but far more refined and full of effort. I couldn’t help but nod. “It’s beautiful!” Her eyes lit up at my response, and she smiled. “I think so too! I’m entering this piece in a city competition.” As she spoke, she picked up her brush. Then, she leaned over to add a finishing touch. Suddenly, bang! The easel toppled over, crashing into an open container of paint, splattering everywhere. Iris yelped and rushed to lift the easel. The painting she had been working on for a month was now ruined, smeared with streaks of paint. Her eyes began to redden as tears welled up. I stood there, stunned, just about to offer some comfort, when a deep voice came from the doorway. “What’s going on in here?” It was Robert. My heart leaped, and I was about to call out, Dad. But Iris had already flung herself into his arms, sobbing. “Dad, Ava ruined my painting!” I froze, disbelief washing over me. “What are you saying? You knocked it over!” Robert’s face darkened. He cast a cold glance at me, then turned his attention back to Iris, speaking gently: “Tell me what happened, Iris. I’ll make it right for you.” Iris sniffled, her voice trembling with grievance. “I spent a whole month working on this piece for the competition. Dad, you know how much effort I put into it. “I just wanted to show it to little sister, but she suddenly reached out and knocked the easel over…” Sarah came upstairs at some point. Hearing this, she looked heartbroken, her expression one of deep disappointment. “Ava, I truly appreciate you donating a kidney to Iris, and I wanted to treat you as my own daughter. But how could you do something like this? “If you’re upset about something, just tell me. I’ll do my best to make it right. But why would you destroy Iris’s painting? She just had surgery and still pushed herself so hard for this competition… You’ve really let me down.” My mind was a foggy mess as their words sank in. My entire body trembled. “I didn’t… I didn’t do it… I swear I didn’t!” Robert strode forward and raised his hand, delivering a hard slap across my face. I closed my eyes. My ears rang as a stinging pain spread across my cheek. In the end, I never got to eat that meal. As the door closed, it became clear: this warm, cozy home belonged to their family of three. I was an outsider. Outside the door, I could still hear faint voices from within. Sarah’s voice was filled with worry. “Robert, no matter what, you can’t hit a child. Ava just had surgery not long ago; her body is still weak.” I found it all so unbearably ironic. Robert’s voice was still laced with anger. “Ava’s just a little brat, just like her mother! How could I have a daughter like her? “Sarah, you’re too soft-hearted.” I couldn’t bear to hear anymore. I fled, humiliated and broken. On my way home, a familiar wave of dizziness struck again. My heart thudded irregularly, and everything went black. When I opened my eyes, I was in a hospital bed. The doctor told me that a passerby from my neighborhood had called for an ambulance. Then, with a serious expression, the doctor explained my condition. I took the report from him, and the bold letters at the top stabbed into my eyes: Kidney Failure. My mind buzzed, filled with a deafening hum. That explained everything. The doctor said that kidney failure progresses quickly. My condition was already severe, and I was at risk of losing my life at any moment. He urged me to contact my family immediately to discuss a treatment plan. I forced a weak smile and said I would. Dragging my weakened body home, I found everything as it was: cold, lifeless, empty. No one was waiting for me. No one cared about me. No one loved me. What Iris could take for granted was something I could never dream of having. For some people like me, being alive was the hardest, most painful thing of all. I wanted to say I didn’t hate him, but I couldn’t. After the surgery, there had been a fleeting moment when I foolishly believed I might finally receive love. Now, it all felt like a cruel joke. When I’d made that childish, naive request to my father, he must have scoffed at how ridiculous it was. I stopped going outside. I didn’t have the strength. I lay in bed all day. Whatever food I managed to eat, I soon vomited back up. Breathing became a struggle. I stopped sending messages to my father. He didn’t return, didn’t send a single text, didn’t make a single call. The only sign of his existence was a transfer of money to my bank account after I left Sarah’s house. It was a larger sum than usual. But none of that mattered. I was dying. Half a month later, the doorbell rang for the first time. I summoned every ounce of strength I had to get up and open the door. Standing outside was a young woman, elegantly dressed in a beautiful dress, her lightly curled hair draped over her shoulders. It was Iris. I glanced at her and instinctively raised my hand to touch my own haggard, sunken face. I had looked in the mirror just yesterday. The once chubby girl who had been mocked was no longer there. My face had lost all its flesh, but it wasn’t beautiful, only hollow, lifeless, and haunting. My legs and arms were swollen, grotesquely heavy, and terrifying to look at. Iris flinched slightly, startled, but quickly covered her mouth and giggled daintily. “How pitiful you look, Ava.” I stared at her, utterly confused. I thought to myself, “Why? Why is it like this? All I ever wanted was something any child would: a father’s love. That’s all. Why must it come to this?” Iris seemed to read my thoughts, and she smiled as she said. “Ava, if you want to blame someone, blame your bad luck. It’s not my fault we share the same father.” “Because of your mother, my mom and dad were forced apart. And now you’re here, trying to win Dad’s favor, trying to take what’s mine? Keep dreaming.” So that was how they saw me. I stood there, numb, unsure of what to say. “Take this as a lesson,” Iris continued smugly, “and don’t get any more ideas about things that don’t belong to you.” It seemed she had come solely to mock me. After delivering her words, she turned to leave. But after taking a couple of steps, she paused as if remembering something. Turning back, she flashed me a sweet smile. “Oh, by the way, how was the chicken soup my mom made? “I begged Dad for a long time to get him to share a bowl with you.” My hands trembled faintly at my sides. My eyes burned, but when I rubbed them, there were no tears left to cry. I should have known. I had only been fooling myself back then. I turned and walked back to my room, moving like a lifeless shell. Just as I was about to lie down, my body seized up uncontrollably. I collapsed to the floor. I couldn’t breathe. Deep down, I knew I was going to die alone in this cold and empty room. At the edge of death, a surge of reluctance welled up within me, sharp and unbearable. With trembling hands, I pulled my phone from my pocket and dialed the number I had called countless times before but never reached. Dad. Dad. Please, if nothing else, at least send your daughter off one last time. Dad. Dad. ***** My consciousness began to fade, slipping away little by little. I never got through. Darkness claimed me, permanent and absolute. Half an hour later, the phone on the floor lit up. A message appeared on the screen. Robert replied: [What’s wrong?]
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