Chapter 2

Mama, ever the industrious whirlwind, fluttered through life like a busy bee, darting from task to task in a relentless pursuit of opportunities to maintain her relevance in the fast-paced world she inhabited. In her ceaseless hustle, she seemed to overlook the subtle changes in me - the inches I had grown, the newness of my kindergarten uniform. I couldn't harbour resentment; by the time she returned home, the moon had claimed the sky and I was lost in slumber, and each morning, she vanished with the dawn before my eyes could seek hers.

A longing for her presence, her smile, her comforting touch, often gnawed at my heart. I yearned for her to witness the melodies I coaxed from the piano keys, to share in my triumphs and to hear her voice swell with pride. I harboured a quiet hope, a flickering wish, that she would walk through the gates of my school, her presence a sudden, bright reality. I longed for her to hear the chorus of praises from my teachers, to see the fruits of my small yet significant triumphs, each achievement a testament to a journey she had barely witnessed.

But in those moments of aching absence, Papa's touch would sweep in. His caresses seemed to cast a spell, a soothing enchantment that momentarily dissolved my longing into the ether.

Time with Papa became my world, a realm where I clung to his enigmatic, strangely pleasurable touches as if they were a lifeline, a balm for the inner turmoil that yearned for Mama's elusive attention. This dependency, akin to a potent drug, grew into an addiction so overwhelming that I found myself seeking his touch without prompt, instinctively drawn to it. In those moments, as I reached out, Papa would offer a heavy, breathy smile, a silent acknowledgement of our unspoken ritual.

"You're getting naughtier, aren't you?" Papa's whisper, laced with mischief, brushed my ear, sending a playful shiver through me.

I, an innocent child, mistook these moments as a path to joy, a means to sideline sadness. Unbeknownst to me, each giggle was a step further from Mama, a silent wedge driving us apart.

That night, the tranquillity shattered like glass under the sudden storm of Mama's fury. Her piercing scream reverberated through the walls of my room, a thunderous roar that jolted both Papa and me. In the dim light, her eyes blazed with unsettling intensity, darting between us like a hunter sizing up prey, deliberating her first strike.

"Disgusting animal!" she hurled the words like daggers.

Confusion swirled within me, unsure of whom her scorn was aimed at. Those words, though, burrowed deep, leaving a wound words alone couldn't heal. As Papa hurried after her to the living room, I was left alone, cradling a pain that had no voice, a heartache too complex for my young mind to untangle.

But from that tumultuous night, a harsh truth unfurled before me, one I dearly wished remained veiled in ignorance.

"I know everything, Naoko! All along! The disgusting things you've done behind my back for money and fame!"

Papa's voice, so unfamiliar in its loud, anguished pitch, pierced through the walls, mingling with the cacophony of objects being slammed in fury. I was shielded from the physical chaos of the living room, yet the vivid sounds painted a stark image in my mind. I could imagine Papa's contorted expression of rage and Mama's deadly stare that sent a shiver down my spine, a visceral echo of the anger they must have been drowning in.

"You are even worse!" Mama's voice surged, overpowering Papa's anger with a force that suggested it had been simmering long before I came into existence. "I thought it was only those kids at your agency— but what did I see just now? With your own child, too?!"

It was a harrowing exchange, a bitter unmasking of the darkest secrets they had harboured. Papa had been aware of Mama's affairs with influential men, desperate ploys to cling to her fading stardom. And Mama, in a twisted equilibrium, had turned a blind eye to the unforgivable sins Papa committed with the underage talents under his care. This dreadful insight into the fractures within my family was jarring enough, but amidst the storm, a more unsettling revelation loomed.

"My own child?! You dare to claim that?!" Papa's voice, thunderous and incredulous, crashed against the walls of what was once our sanctuary. "I know the truth, clear as day! That boy is not mine!"

At that moment, the world outside mirrored our turmoil - thunder roared, vying with Papa's fury, while the sound of a vase shattering seemed to mark the fracture of our family. Lost in a sea of confusion, my young mind grappled with the fragments of understanding, unable to fully grasp the magnitude of what was unfolding.