One day, my father had heard that a daughter of his acquaintance

- well into her twenties - was bathing with her father.

I recall myself being in grade five or six at the time.

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My father had never changed a diaper nor attended

any school entrance ceremony or sports meeting.

He was the type of person who would not - and was not willing to - spare time for his children.

 

He told me to take a bath with him.

As far back as I can remember,

I had the habit of taking a bath myself.

Refusal was not an option in my household of dominant patriarchy.

The right of veto simply didnʼt exist.

 

Working in a factory,

Watering a huge flowerbed,

Bathing together was much more disturbing than any physical labor.

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Discomfort was the only feeling I had.

“This is not right.”

I couldnʼt put my awkwardness into words.

I felt that my answer had been strongly denied.

 

I bet he doesnʼt remember any of it.

Iʼm the only one left behind.

What was that memory like?

I wonder if someday, I could look back into it as something nostalgic

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