My mum always wears a pair of sunglasses, even in the middle of the winter. I see her in the bathroom washing her face. She has black marks under her eyes. Every night Papa tries to teach her never to ask him questions when he is mad, but she never learns. I know better. Whenever his breath smells of cheap whiskey, I hide underneath my bed.

I am bullied in school and even on the internet. They call me a fat dog, ugly bitch, stinky, pull my hair, kick me, pull my skirt down and laugh. My mum never leaves her room. My papa never comes home before midnight. My brother sniffs a white powder from a silver foil and doesn't talk to anyone. He never calls me his little sister. He tells me he hates me.

I stroke the bruises on my mum’s arm, she cries and brushes my hand off and tells me that nobody cares about her and nobody loves her. I tell her I love her very much, she says I am lying. She pushes me out and shuts the door. When papa comes home, I give him a bowl of tomato soup I heated for him. He snatches the bowl from me. I tell him tomorrow is my birthday. He says, “So?” And I say, “Nothing” and go to my room. My brother is lying on his bed. There is blood coming out of his nose. I try to wipe it with my frock, he yells at me for spoiling his moment.

I pick up the red and green pencil box with the picture of Tom and Jerry from my table and wrap a newspaper around it. Jina will never know who took the box from her school bag. I write myself a message on a piece of paper,  

“Hi Anne,

Happy birthday darling. You are the best thing that ever happened to us. We all love you so much.

Love Mom, Dad and Rob.”

I practice my surprised look for morning before going to bed.