I froze. The room got quiet in that sharp, stinging way where even the walls seem to listen. The knife trembled a bit in my hand. I had no idea what I’d done wrong. I thought I was just eating.
I remember her daughter—Shayla—smirking a little, like this was her entertainment. Her mom grabbed my plate, took the utensils from me, and said, “Let me show you how normal people eat.”
I nodded, cheeks burning. But something in me shifted. It wasn’t just embarrassment—it was this raw shame I didn’t know I was carrying until that moment. I hadn’t known we were “less than.” Not really. Not until I got compared to “normal.”
I didn’t go back to Shayla’s house after that.
When I got home, I told my mom what happened. She stayed quiet for a while, just sat at the sink peeling potatoes. Then she said, “Don’t worry. One day, you’ll sit at your own table. And you’ll know how to treat people.”
I didn’t understand it then. But now, years later, that moment rewired something in me.
Back then, we lived in a one-bedroom apartment above a laundromat in Glendale. My mom cleaned houses and waitressed on weekends. My older brother, Ishan, worked part-time at the gas station to help pay bills. I was the kid who always had to decline field trips. No birthday parties. No new shoes—just the ones we patched up with glue.
But I had books. Old ones from library sales. And that became my escape.
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