People say that I’m antisocial, but hell are they wrong. I can’t even talk to them just because I’m an Asian.

That’s right, I’m Asian.

So what?

They turn their snobby nose up and walk away as I’m in sight. They couldn’t even look at me for a second without whispering to their friends about an Asian in a white school.

But I know better to punch their bloody face; I keep quiet.

I would just walk on in silence without glancing at them. I would ignore their piercing words and glares, and just keep my feet walking.

Even if they did know that I’ve heard what they said about me, they wouldn’t care. Who would?

I was adopted at the age of five. I remember wailing as I saw a car crash into Dad, crying as I saw blood everywhere and screaming when they put me inside an orphanage. The happiest memory I had was the day that my mom brought me home from the orphanage, or prison, as I would like to say. Since then, I had a home.

My biological mother died when she gave birth to me, so that left just Dad and me. Suddenly, dad was gone too. I was too shocked to eat, sleep or even think. Why had he left me? Had I been a bad girl?

I didn’t even know what it felt like having a mother. I cried and cried, remembering that day he promised me that I would finally have a mother. He didn’t break his promise.

Cause a week after I was to live in prison, Mom came and bailed me out.

Mom was the gift Dad gave me from heaven. She was an angel, a live saver, and most importantly, she was my Mom.

A year after, when I was six, she married Benjamin. Before the marriage, Ben always brought presents and toys for me. He often played with me and joked around. Soon, I was already fond of him.

It took me three months to realize that he was the replacement father my Dad sent from up there. But to tell the truth, no one can take the place of my father.

When I was seven, Ben had a new job in America. So, we migrated from Asia to America.

That’s when the problem started.