Damn A pluses, not the Rice balls 🐾

Until then, I had always been his favourite.

He often said he had such high hopes for me—

That one day, I’d become someone he could proudly call his own.

But those two A-pluses

That damn A- pluses,

I can’t even recall which subjects they were in.

Neither can the neighbours.

What I do remember—

what I’ll never forget—

Is how he insisted I attend the prize distribution

For the top-performing students in our grade.

As if marking attendance for their triumph

Could somehow mask my own failure.

I wasn't sad, I was shocked.

Yes, I faltered.

I was distracted, careless, and far too indulgent.

It was my failure—I own that.

But what I cannot understand

Is why I despise him

For loving me a little less.

That shift in his gaze

Shook the very foundation of my beliefs—

The ones I had quietly built throughout my childhood.

I had always believed he was my favourite.

But I never knew our bond was so fragile,

So easily shattered—

Cracked open the moment he sprang from his seat to strike at me.

I didn’t know someone could look at me

With so much hate.

No, not the desperate, trembling face

He once cradled 18 years ago in his arms.

In first grade, our principal had asked us

To write a poem about our favourite person.

While every other child wrote about their mother or father,

I wrote about him,

My Grandpa.

I wrote about how he used to feed me rice

Rolled into little spheres—

Calling them animal eggs.

And I trusted him.

I ate them with joy.

But behind every bite,

There was always someone else—

Someone whose presence I failed to truly see.

She was the one who sacrificed mornings, nights,

And her entire youth—

For me and Minny.

She believed in me, always.

Never asking for anything in return.

And when she cried into my arms,

Pounding her chest,

Begging me to save her—

I stood there,

Blind in my loyalty

To him who fed me rice balls

And called it love.

I am sorry for my naivety.

I am sorry for not understanding,

Amma.