The look on everyone’s face wasn’t new. I was often the one to rebel, walk the opposite direction, or occasionally break the excessive flowered vases my mother put on the lacquered wooden table out in the hallway for display. Usually the expression that played across Mother’s face told me exactly what I had done wrong. But this time, I craned my neck every which way at her, trying to figure out this one.
My cousin, Ali, was smirking behind her, knowing he was about to enjoy my latest misery in the making. I despised him for reasons you would least expect. It was only because he was male. In the culture I was born in, girls had it simple; help out in the household, learn to make good macadamia key lime pie, get married, have offspring, be a good mother and wife. Boys were jackpot; they carried on the family business, got married when ready, ate the good macadamia key lime pies, slept, and earned their often involuntary respect.
At the moment, Ali was the only boy of the house, automatically attaining center stage. I would’ve been fine if it wasn’t for my grandfather always taking him on visits to the family owned Fabric Family & Co. mill or giving him extra Yum! biscuits with tea at breakfast. Unfortunately, jealousy overtook my mind to such an extent that in order to get my share of attention, I turned into a tomboy. My habit was: acting like a boy and in my free time: writing.
“Cruel Grandfather”
I had written a story, simply about what I felt. A grandfather liked his grandson better than his granddaughter and later realized what such an assumption could be the greatest mistake of his life. He had made sure his grandson’s life was exquisite, spoiling him with grand things while he left his granddaughter behind. At the end of my story, the grandson became a vulgar gang member who sold drugs to little kids and the granddaughter became a Sub-lieutenant pilot serving the navy. The worst part was, I provided illustrations.
My grandfather had discovered the story and he was reading it word for word, for the second time, in front of us. His eyebrows scrunched in anger and his wrinkles curved into the lord of all grouches over his pouted lips. The family was tensed, all packed in one petite room, hovering over each other’s shoulders in impatience. When he was finally done, he looked up at me and chuckled. I caught a glint of a tear in his worn eyes before he hugged me and said,
“That was brilliant.”