Chapter 2

"Don't be so ungrateful."

I had heard those words too many times.

So many times that they had become a trigger. Every time I heard them, my stomach would tighten, as if an invisible hand had reached inside and squeezed hard.

On the day I was discharged, Dad came to pick me up.

He stood at the door of the ward, wearing a faded plaid shirt, holding a plastic folder with my discharge papers.

He looked at me, his lips moving, but in the end, he only said, "You've lost weight."

I looked at him, waiting for him to say more.

Like asking how I felt, if I was still in pain, or even just telling me to rest well at home.

But he didn't.

He just turned around, took the bags from Mom’s hands, said, "The car is downstairs," and walked away.

I followed behind him, staring at his slightly hunched back.

His hair was turning gray, almost completely white at the back, like a dusting of frost.

Since I was a kid, my dad had been a silent shadow in my life.

He used to work as an engineer, leaving early and coming home late. He would sit on the couch watching TV, occasionally offering a word or two as his version of family conversation.

When I was in kindergarten, during a school play, I looked everywhere for him from the stage. I finally found him sitting in the very last row, head down, staring at his phone.

Mom said that was just how he was, and told me not to mind.

But I did mind.

Of course I minded.

On the drive home, Mom sat in the passenger seat while I sat in the back.

She reclined her seat all the way, talking to Dad about the hospital bills, complaining about the tests Dr. Carter ordered, and saying how hospitals only cared about making money these days.

Dad didn't speak, focusing on the road.

"Chloe," Mom suddenly turned around.

I looked up, meeting her eyes in the rearview mirror.

"You gained quite a bit of weight during your hospital stay," she said casually, as if talking about the weather. "Step on the scale when we get back. Let's see how much you gained."

My hands gripped the seatbelt.

The AC in the car was blasted high, but my back was covered in sweat.

The first thing we did when we got home, as expected, was the scale.

I stood on the white digital scale, staring at the numbers, my heart hammering against my ribs.

Mom crouched down to look, then suddenly bolted upright.

"Four pounds!" her voice shrieked. "Chloe, you were only in the hospital for a few days, and you gained four pounds!"

I opened my mouth. "Mom, the doctor said I need nutrients right now..."

"What do doctors know?" she cut me off. "They don't have to deal with the rest of your life! Do you know how far you are from your target weight? You were only a month away, and now look! You have to start all over again!"

Her eyes welled with tears, looking as if she were the victim of some grand tragedy.

"I worked so hard to help you lose weight these past few months, and you ruined it all in just a few days at the hospital."

I stood on the scale, frozen. The surface was freezing, and the chill traveled from the soles of my feet straight to my head.

"Get off. What are you still standing there for?" Mom shoved me. "Starting today, we're back on the diet. No eating in the cafeteria at lunch. I'll drop off your food."

"Mom—"

"Don't argue with me."

Her voice turned cold. "If you pull another stunt like this, I'm taking your phone and your computer. You won't be going anywhere."

I looked at her, suddenly feeling incredibly exhausted.

Not physically, but a deep, bone-weary exhaustion.

It felt like someone had poured lead into my marrow. Every breath took all the strength I had.