I was a good student before everything started to fall apart.
I used to get first place in class—more than once, actually.
Back then, I really believed I had a future… that maybe I could make something of myself.
But after I turned 10, my parents got divorced, and I ended up living with my father and his new wife.
That was when everything started to change in my life.
Why? Because I never liked my father. He was always drunk—loud, violent, and cruel. I still remember the nights he came home shouting, breaking things… hitting us.
But my mother—she was different. She truly loved me. And I loved her more than anyone.
Now I was stuck with him, and she was gone. How could anything stay the same, when I was left with the one I hated, and taken from the one I loved?
It got even worse when I started to doubt my mother.
Why did she leave me behind—with him?
I asked myself that over and over. And each time, it hurt a little more… like a crack that never fully healed.
It made me so sad and lonely that my grades started to drop. I stopped talking to people, drifted away from everyone… and slowly, I began living more in my own little fantasy world.
At the age of 12, after two years of marriage, my stepmom gave birth to my half-brother and sister. My father started paying more attention to them. He saw me as useless after my grades dropped.
He stopped investing in my studies—no new notebooks, no proper school bag, and only two uniforms. My stepmom barely washed them once a week, if at all.
My classmates made fun of me. They looked at me with disgust because I wore the same dirty uniform, torn and smelly.
The one or two friends I had slowly drifted away.
I had no close connections left. And no hope for the future.
The only good thing left was my mother's monthly visits.
But as my life changed, I started to blame her.
She was the one who got divorced, and she left me behind.
My life had turned 180 degrees. I couldn't see anyone as close anymore. Every day felt like I was trapped in a box—just breathing to stay alive.
When I turned 14, during one of her visits, I finally gathered the courage to ask her—"Why did you leave me behind?"
And that's when she told me everything—the reason for their divorce, and why she had to leave me.
My father had cheated on her.
She had simply reached her limit—the pain, the beatings, and now the betrayal. She couldn't take it anymore.
She told me she fought for custody, but the court sided with him. She lost. She also said the reason she never told me the full truth was because she wanted me to be happy. She didn't want me growing up trapped in anger and pain.
She thought… if he was going to raise me, then maybe—just maybe—there was a chance he could change. And if that happened, she didn't want me to grow up hating him.
Even after everything he did, she hoped that if there was even a one-in-a-million chance he'd become a better father, I deserved that chance—without the weight of the truth.
Looking back, I understand.
If she had told me sooner, I probably would've hated him more. I would've been bitter, lonely, and maybe never able to move on.
I mean, how would you feel if the person you loved most disappeared, and the one who made her disappear was now raising you?
I might have never accepted him, even if he suddenly started acting fatherly.
But even with all her effort to protect me, I don't think my life would've turned out any different—truth or not.
There was never going to be a one-in-a-million chance.
My father's intentions were clear from the start.
He never wanted to be a father to me. He chose me because I was a boy. Because, to him, that made me "useful."
And when my grades dropped, he beat me. He cut off all support for my studies.The rest, you already know.
I'm 15 now. High school starts tomorrow.
As expected, my father enrolled me in a public all-boys high school with poor education facilities. My half-brother and sister go to private schools with everything they could ever need.
Well, whatever. I already know what'll happen when my grades drop again.
But this time, I don't even want to go. My mother passed away just yesterday.
I cried for what felt like an eternity.
Eventually, I stopped—not because I moved on, but because I hadn't eaten or drunk anything. Even my throat wouldn't let me cry anymore.
I was lying on the floor, weak and empty. No energy left. Only tears continued to fall.
One month later, after being beaten by my dad for "wasting his money"—money he never spent on me—I finally attended high school.
And the first thing that happened?
I got bullied.
If I wasn't already this lonely, this tired, with no energy or hope left… maybe I would've fought back.
But I didn't. I just let it happen.
My high school life felt like hell—from the very start, all the way to the end.
Until my final year, when one of the bullies dared to insult my mother. He knew I lived with my stepmom and that my real mother had passed away.
He said, "Your father must've gotten sick of her and left to get someone better. She probably couldn't satisfy—"
Before he could finish, I snapped.
I beat him until he lost consciousness.
The story spread fast: I was the bully. He was the victim. No one cared about the truth. No one would believe me—especially not my father.
Scratch that. I don't even consider him a father anymore. He's just a sperm donor.
He's the lowest kind of scum.
And the result? He forced me to drop out of school and told me to start working.
A month later, he found a job for me.
He made it clear: if I wanted to stay, I had to pay.
So, I started working as a warehouse packer—packaging items meant to be delivered somewhere.
It went okay for a while. I managed to save a little money. Enough to find a cheap apartment, somewhere far from that hell.
If I had to pay to live, might as well live somewhere I wasn't being insulted every day. Somewhere I didn't have to hear lectures about how my siblings were better than me, or how I was a waste.
I didn't leave a note.
There was no one in that house worth saying goodbye to.
From my stepmom and father to my half-brother and sister—not one of them would care.
I didn't have any friends to say goodbye to either.
But once I moved out, he used his connections to get me fired.
I had to find another job, near my new place.
And just like that, I started living alone—away from my so-called "family."