The bedroom was warm and quiet, filled with the gentle ticking of a clock. Family photos lined the walls, frozen smiles watching over the scene.

A woman sat beside a small figure wrapped in a blanket, her hand resting against the child’s forehead. The fever had gone down — but not enough.

She reached for a glass of water and a few pills, her movements careful, practiced.

“Bian,” she said softly, “it’s time to take your medicine.”

The name settled heavily between us.

I hesitated.

A familiar knot of resistance twisted in my stomach.

“Mom… I don’t want to take pills.” My voice was barely above a whisper.

“You need them to feel better,” she said gently, though her tone didn’t leave room for refusal.

“Can’t I take syrup instead?”

“You’re a big girl now,” she said, trying to coax me. 

“And your dad won’t like it.”

“Dad is just going to scold me a little,” I muttered.

She hesitated.

The small smile she’d been wearing faltered, fading as soon as the words left my mouth.

Her lips parted as if she wanted to say something — to reassure me, maybe — but no sound came out.

After a moment, she looked away and muttered under her breath,

“You still have a lot to learn about your dad.”

Then she held out the pills. “I cut them into smaller pieces for you.”

She was trying to make it easier for me.

But I stared at the jagged fragments and grimaced.

“It’ll taste even more bitter.”

"Enough complaining, Bian, and..."

The door creaked open in the middle of our conversation.

The room felt different all of a sudden as the footsteps came closer.

I looked up to see who came —

Dad was standing there.

My face brightened instantly, the pills forgotten.

But Mom stiffened beside me. Her hand tightened around the glass of water, knuckles whitening as she slowly stood.

She didn’t turn around.

Why does she look like that?

“What’s going on?” Dad asked.

“Nothing much,” Mom replied, too quickly. “I was just giving her the medicine.”

“You said you would,” he said, stepping closer.

“I was just about to— 

Is she refusing again?”

Before Mom could finish, Dad turned his attention to me.

I could tell Dad was angry. I could tell Dad was angry. Lately, he always was.

Sometimes I wish I could turn back into a baby again.

“Don’t worry,” Mom said quickly. “She’ll take it eventually.”

Dad didn’t answer. He held out his hand and said, “Give me the pills.”

Mom froze as soon as those words left Dad’s mouth.

Her shoulders went rigid, and the color drained from her face as if someone had pulled the warmth out of the room.

“It’s fine, I’ll—”

“Give them to me.”

Dad interrupted again.

Her hands trembled as she placed the pills in his palm.

He examined them slowly, one piece between his fingers.

His brows drew together, jaw tightening — not in confusion, but irritation, as if something had already displeased him.

“Why are they cut?”

“So she can swallow them more easily,” Mom said quietly.

Her voice was careful, measured — the kind used when every word mattered.

“But she still didn’t.”

He discarded the pieces and picked up a full pill.

As Dad stepped closer, a cold crept down my spine.

I couldn’t protest as I did with Mom. The fear of disappointing him made my throat close.

“Open your mouth,” he said.

It wasn’t a request.

“Then drink the water.”

“I… I tried, but I couldn’t swallow it.”

“Then hold the water in your mouth,” he said. “I’ll put it in.”

There was no room for argument.

I looked at Mom.

She closed her eyes.

Mom had tried both ways before — gently, patiently.

But with him, I couldn’t do it. The words stuck in my throat. I didn’t know how to tell him no.

Reluctantly, I followed his instructions.

The bitterness flooded my mouth. My stomach lurched. I gagged and spat the pill out.

Dad didn’t react.

He picked it up again.

“Open.”

The taste lingered, sharp and unbearable. The urge to retch clawed at my throat.

I tried again — forced myself to swallow — but my body betrayed me, rejecting it once more.

He didn’t stop.

“Open.”

“Dad… It’s too bitter.”

“You wouldn’t taste it if you swallowed it.”

“C-can’t I take syrup instead?” I begged.

My voice shook, thin and small, already knowing the answer.

“No.”

The pill went back into my mouth. Each second intensified the urge to spit it out.

My body rejected it again. I couldn’t bear it anymore—

Bleargh…

Pain exploded at the back of my head.

I fell from the bed, the world tilting violently as my ears rang. Tears burned my eyes, and everything blurred together.

Is my fever getting worse?

Through the haze, I saw Mom grabbing his arm, her voice breaking — frantic, desperate.

He shoved her aside and stepped toward me.

“I’m scared,” I whispered.

The slap came before the word fully left my mouth.