I wasn’t really a shy girl. It was just that Dad strictly commanded me not to talk to people since I was in kindergarten. He spanked me ruthlessly one time when he saw me playing with kids. I was in third grade then. I cried like a dying kitten because I didn’t understand him at all. The fury in his eyes suddenly turned into sympathy.  Then, he hugged me and said, “I just love you so much, my Princess. You’re the only thing I have. I can’t afford to lose you.” We cried together. That was the only time we cried together. I don’t know if it will ever happen again. I mean, the cry and the hug. Not the spanking.

There are many things that I really don’t know. I don’t know until now. I don’t know who my mother is. Since grade school, my Dad told me not to say anything if they ask me about my Mom. In school, I often see my Dad talk to teachers and school authorities privately, sometimes, in closed doors. I’ve never met any of my relatives. I don’t know if I have any. My Dad never wanted me to ask questions. All I know is that my Dad hated, I mean abhorred, my Mom.

For 20 years, I’ve been living a life of murky space. I have a perfect 20-20 vision. My eyes are opened wide. However, my Dad blindfolded me.  I can take it off. But I’m scared of him.

“Dad, can I ask you a question?” I was eight years old then and we were still in Osaka.

Dad was devouring fried chicken thighs. “Homework?”

“Yes, Dad. It says, What is your father’s job?”

Dad chewed and pondered for about a minute. “I’m a businessman, Sweetie. I’m a businessman.”

I believed him at that time. But, actually until now, I never knew what exactly my Dad’s job was. I just remember him going home sometimes during midnight with lots of fast food chicken thighs and hamburgers. Sometimes, he came home early and cooked dinner while teaching me my Math homework. (My Dad is a Math genius. Too bad, I didn’t get it.) There were times when he came home drunk.  I often saw him talking to the phone for hours, sometimes arguing, sometimes very calm in an awkward way.

When I was 12, we moved to Manhattan. While I was in the passenger’s seat, I asked my Dad who was quietly driving his new Mustang. “Dad, what’s your job now?”

“I’m a mathematician.” Dad answered noncommittally.

“You mean-”

“No more asking, Hitomi.”

Whenever Dad calls me by my first name, I know he’s mad. Otherwise, he’d call me Princess or Sweetie. I just shot my mouth until we reached my new school.