I find myself at the entrance of the house where I grew up, my heart racing fiercely. The home that served simultaneously as a refuge and a cage appears untouched after 12 years since I was forced to leave on my 18th birthday. Its light blue paint is still peeling, and the porch continues to groan under weight. Drawing in a deep breath for courage, I press the doorbell.

The sound of a haunting laugh travels through the house, and moments later, the door slowly opens. My mother, appearing more frail and aged than in my memories, greets me. Age has sculpted deep lines into her face, yet her gaze remains as hard as ever. 

“Peter,” she voices with a mix of astonishment and annoyance, while my father looks on, stunned, from behind her.

“Mother, Father,” I manage to say quietly. I enter uninvited, immediately enveloped by the familiar odors of tobacco and alcohol. A flood of painful recollections overwhelms me, each a harsh reminder of past sufferings.

“You have no right to be here, why have you returned?” my mother demands sharply, shutting the door.

Facing her, emotions of sorrow and rage swell deep inside me. I yell, “We must discuss the past. I know you are aware of your actions!”

“What have I done?”, she challenges, pretending not to know.

Frustrated, I respond, “Are you seriously playing ignorant? The beatings, the constant shouting, the daily insults, and the burns from cigarettes on my skin.”

Facing my father, tears streaming down my cheeks, I stutter, “W-w-why did you allow the mistreatment, Father?”

His candid and cruel response breaks my heart.

“It was my idea. You were a mistake, Peter. We never wanted a child and here’s a reminder giving a child up for adoption is illegal here.”