I looked at his hands, no calluses, no signs of a hard day’s work. And my mom, even though her clothes were worn out, her face was still smooth and soft. They didn’t look like people who had ever really struggled.

The bitterness inside me bubbled up, but I couldn’t stop it.

Mom, noticing I had been standing too long, quickly helped me back to the room.

Dinner that night was a disaster. Discounted vegetables from the market—yellowing leaves, bugs crawling on them and white eggs floating in the soup.

Dad gave an awkward smile, looking embarrassed. "Savannah, your mom spent half a month’s living expenses on that cake for you. We're a little short on money right now, but we’ll make do. Once I get paid from the construction site, we’ll go grab those spicy hot wings you love."

It was hard to say anything. Everything felt fake now.

My mom started crying too, her voice trembling. "It's my fault I couldn’t give you a better life. Because of me, you couldn’t even get the scholarship... Savannah, I’m so sorry."

I stared at the sad, greenish food on the old dining table and pushed the plate toward them, my face completely blank.

"It’s not your fault. I don’t blame you. You’re both tired from work. You eat. I’m not hungry today," I said, my tone flat.

Mom and Dad exchanged a look, but I didn’t miss the flicker of disgust in their eyes.

Before, whenever they made a meal, they would always scoop the food into my bowl, saying they couldn’t finish it.

I used to feel touched and sad, thinking they were skipping meals just to keep me well-fed. Now, I knew better. They didn’t like the food. They didn’t like me.

I took a small bite, chewing through the tears that blurred my vision. But all I could taste was bitterness.

Seeing me eat, my mom sighed in relief, like she had just solved some great problem.

Then Dad’s phone alarm went off. He answered quickly, pretending it was an urgent call.

"The construction site’s rushing work before the New Year. No time for a break," he said as he grabbed his coat and stood up.

Mom followed right behind him, pulling on her cheap, patched-up cotton jacket. "We’ll stay out late setting up a stall," she said. "We need the money for your tuition next semester."

I limped after them for a few moment, keeping my distance. My heart sank as I saw Mom climb off the rundown car and step into a Bugatti.