Chapter 2 — The Password Without Me

Staring at the vibrant, glowing icons on the screen, a profound dryness stung my eyes. It was not the urge to weep, but rather a deep, bone-weary exhaustion. It felt as though the very last flicker of hope for this house had been entirely evaporated by the sun.

The medical check-up was scheduled two weeks later, and I made certain there would be no mistakes this time. Waking up at five in the morning without a word to anyone, I caught the earliest subway train, arriving outside the hospital gates by seven-thirty to wait for the doors to open. No one knew, nor did anyone bother to ask why I had risen so early. The examination concluded, and three days later, I returned to collect the results. The moment I held that document in my hand, the final item on my checklist was firmly crossed off. Everything had been accomplished entirely by my own effort. Not a single penny from my family had been spent, nor a single favor from anyone at home had been called upon. That very same week, my homeroom teacher summoned me to the faculty office.

"Le Du Do, the city-wide English speech competition has only one nomination slot from our school, and it is yours. Winning an award will earn you recommendation letter points, which will benefit your academic profile."

A confirmation form required a parental signature. That evening, I placed the document on the dining table and spoke to my mother. She was busy researching college admission policies for student-athletes to benefit my younger brother, and merely grumbled an acknowledgement:

"Leave it there, I will sign it tomorrow."

The second day passed without a signature. By the morning of the third day, I blocked her path.

"Today is the final day."

At last, she picked up a pen, lifting her eyelids sluggishly:

"What competition?"

"An English speech competition at the city level."

"Fine. Just make sure you do not forget your lines and embarrass yourself."

Once signed, she retreated to the bathroom. My father sat in the living room reading the newspaper, hearing the entire exchange without uttering a single word. I stood beside him for two seconds as he flipped a page, then walked away. The competition was on a Saturday. Before leaving the house, I put on my most presentable outfit.

"Mom, are you coming to watch?"

It was my final time asking.

"I cannot go. Your brother has a scrimmage match today, and both your father and I must attend. The coach said parents need to be present to record videos for technique analysis."

My parents were going together to film my younger brother's practice match. My city-wide competition would have no one in attendance.

"Understood."

Backstage at the Municipal Cultural Center, every single contestant was accompanied by parents. Some adjusted collars, some held bouquets of flowers, while others brandished smartphones to secure the best vantage points. I sat alone in the furthest corner, quietly reviewing my speech. The mother of a girl sitting beside me handed me a bottle of water:

"Young lady, have your parents not arrived yet?"

"They are not coming."

A flicker of pity crossed her face. I offered a faint smile and lowered my head to resume memorizing my lines. Before stepping onto the stage, I glanced toward the back row of the auditorium. It was completely empty. For three and a half minutes, I delivered the entire speech without a single stumble. Second place in the entire city, receiving the special distinction award. On the subway ride home, I posted a photo of the certificate into our family chat group:

"Competed today, received the city-wide special award."

Five minutes passed without a response. Ten minutes. Half an hour later, my younger brother uploaded a video clip of his scrimmage match to the group, accompanied by the text:

"Ran a personal best in the hundred-meter dash today!"

My mother immediately replied with three voice messages, my father sent a brief "well done," and my elder sister chimed in with "our brother is truly amazing." My message remained quietly suspended above theirs. By the time I returned home, night had fallen. Pushing the door open, the rich aroma of braised pork belly flooded the living room, a celebratory feast for my brother's practice game. I placed my certificate on the dining table.

"Mom, look at this. The city-wide special award."

She picked it up, flipped through it casually, and let out an indifferent "oh." Then she uttered words that made my entire body freeze.

"What is the point of this?"

"For my future academic portfolio..."

"Alright, alright, I know."

She set the certificate down, tossing it carelessly next to a pile of my brother's athletic shoeboxes.

"Back in the day, your sister's English was quite good too, yet she never made such a fuss about it."

A fuss. I had merely shown her the certificate for a single moment. And that was considered making a fuss. Whenever my brother sent updates about his matches to the group and the entire family cheered him on in applause, what was that called? At that moment, my father spoke up. Seated on the sofa, he spared me a rare glance:

"Du Do, it is just a speech competition, do not take it so seriously. It is not an international contest. Focus your mind on important matters."

Important matters. He did not even know what "important matters" I was preparing for. My brother emerged from his bedroom, casting a glance at the certificate on the table:

"You joined a competition too, sis? What kind?"

"English speech."

"Oh." He picked up the certificate and stared at it for two seconds. "City-wide second place? Then who got first?"

When he put the certificate back down, he did not return it to the flat surface of the table, instead casually tossing it onto the armrest of the sofa. Shortly after, that certificate was covered by the jacket my brother had peeled off. A little later, it was buried beneath a delivery package belonging to my sister. And after that, it was used by my mother as a makeshift mat for a bowl of scalding hot soup. Three days later, when I pulled it out from beneath the bottom of the soup bowl, a ring of water stains had permanently marked its surface. I did not fly into a rage. I carried it back to my bedroom, gently blotted away the moisture with a tissue, pressed out the wrinkles with a heavy dictionary, and tucked it into the very bottom drawer of my desk. I locked it. Not because it lacked importance, but because I had finally understood a simple truth: in this household, my achievements were not merely unseen—they were intentionally erased.