When Uncle officially applied for custody, the court granted it without much hesitation, citing my biological parents’ clear failure to provide basic care.

I saw my father again that day. Relief was written all over his face, as if he’d finally unloaded a suffocating weight off his shoulders. He even had the nerve to act all brotherly, slapping Uncle on the shoulder with a fake grin. “Good man! I really owe you one this time, little brother.”

Listening to them talk, the chilling truth finally settled in: when my father dumped me in the mountains… he really had left me there to rot. It was Uncle who had gotten wind of it and raced against time to find me.

Uncle wiped the fake smile off his own face, coldly shoving my father’s hand away. Pulling me close to his side, he looked down at me gently. “Be a good girl, Chi Chi. Say hello to your uncle.”

I obediently bowed my head. “Hello, Uncle.”

My father’s face instantly froze. He looked like he’d just lost a grand while simultaneously having his dignity dragged through the mud. In the end, he shoved a two-hundred-yuan bill into my hands—calling it “lucky money”—before turning on his heel and ducking into a gleaming luxury car.

Watching his car disappear down the street, a lump formed in my throat. Uncle pinched my cheek softly.

“What’s with the long face? Come on. We’re spending every last cent of this two hundred on a royal feast today!”

Of course, when we actually went shopping, he didn’t touch a single penny of my money. He bought me a birthday cake, a little princess dress, brand-new clothes, and a mountain of trinkets.

“Little girls deserve to be spoiled rotten,” he declared.

Bit by bit, my belongings began to fill up our tiny rented apartment. Uncle looked around at the clutter and smiled, his eyes warm. “Finally starting to look like a real home.”

The cake was piped with delicate icing that read: Wishing little Bui Chi endless happiness.

He told me to close my eyes and make a wish. It was the prettiest cake I had ever seen in my short life. If he hadn’t gently reminded me that the cream would melt if we waited too long, I probably would have fallen asleep hugging the box.

I couldn’t even bring myself to eat it at first. Silently, I offered a quiet prayer to the heavens: Please let Uncle stay with me forever.

Surely… that wasn’t asking for too much, was it?

…

I honestly don’t know if I was just born under an unlucky star. Back when my parents neglected me, I barely ever caught a cold. But the moment Uncle started doting on me, taking care of my every need… my body completely revolted.

It was a cold one week and a fever the next.

Uncle owned a tiny diner and rented a little room right behind the kitchen so he could keep a constant eye on me. Every time the dinner rush died down, I’d see him hustle in to check my temperature, tuck the blankets tighter around me, or gently feed me medicine.

I’d lie there watching him, tears welling up in my eyes for no good reason. It wasn’t because I was in pain; it was because I felt like an absolute burden. I was just a little parasite leeching off him—ruining his chances of finding a wife and eating into his hard-earned money.

Uncle could read me like an open book. The second my mouth twitched into a pucker, he pinched my cheek. “Good grief, whose daughter is this? Look at that ugly crying face!”

To make matters worse, every time I cried, he’d casually whip out his phone to take “archival evidence,” threatening to play a slideshow of my teary blunders at my future wedding. I was thoroughly embarrassed and annoyed, but I still snuggled deeper into his side.

“I’m… I’m sorry,” I whispered.

Uncle paused, the teasing fading from his eyes as realization struck him. He rubbed my head gently. “Silly kid. What are you apologizing for? Taking care of you is my job.”

I looked up at him, my eyes red and swollen. “Uncle… I have a really shameless request.”

He beat his chest dramatically. “Spill it! I’d pluck the moon from the sky if you asked for it!”

I took a tiny breath. “Can I… call you Mom?”

He froze like a statue.

Honestly, it made sense in my head. I’d seen on TV how other kids had mothers who nursed them back to health with endless warmth and tenderness. Uncle did all of that. So my six-year-old logic reached a simple conclusion: Uncle must be my “Mom.”

I tried it out, softly testing the word: “Mommy?”

A visible shudder ran through him. He frantically pulled the blanket right over my head, his voice sharp with embarrassment—even as the tips of his ears flushed a brilliant red.

“Bui Chi! Don’t you dare go calling me that! I am a respectable, law-abiding man! Where am I supposed to hide my face if people hear you?!”

I stayed quiet under the blanket. Fine, so my uncle had a fragile sense of pride. I still loved him anyway.

They say raising a child is like tending a flower, but Uncle was out here with hedge shears, personally pruning every single leaf. Under his fierce protectiveness, I grew up healthier, bolder, and a whole lot better at navigating life. Or at the very least… better at managing my uncle.

Throughout my elementary school years, he made an appearance in almost every essay I wrote. When I was sick, he stayed up all night keeping vigil. When I was a picky eater, he spent hours inventing weird, colorful recipes. Every holiday, he’d scheme up some ridiculous surprise.

He’d often grumble to himself, “You have to raise a girl with high standards. Otherwise, some smooth-talking punk is going to fool her when she grows up.”

I’d roll my eyes. As if my taste in men could possibly be that terrible.

In fifth grade, the school handed out invitations for the parent-teacher conference. My homeroom teacher even placed heavy emphasis on the fact that a parent’s signature was strictly required.

I stared at the slip of paper for two seconds. Then, using my left hand, I forged Uncle’s signature in messy handwriting. I checked “No” under the attendance box and scribbled down a generic excuse just to check the box.

On the day of the conference, seeing my classmates walk into school with grim, nervous faces, I secretly congratulated myself on my brilliant maneuver. If Uncle had come, I would’ve been completely toasted. Walking home after class, I was in a fantastic mood, convinced I had just pulled off the smartest move of my life.

Until I pushed open the door to the diner…

Hanging right in the doorway was a massive, hand-painted sign: Closed today. Busy beating my kid. Thanks for understanding.

I froze dead in my tracks, my backpack slipping from my shoulder and dropping to the floor with a dull thud.

Inside the diner sat my homeroom teacher, Ms. Lee. Beside her was Uncle, his face flushed red and practically steaming with rage. An ominous gut feeling told me that coming home today was a terrible mistake.

Ms. Lee shot me a look that plainly said: May God have mercy on your soul.

Before stepping out the door, she patted Uncle on the shoulder. “Bui Chi’s uncle, please remember to keep discipline within reasonable bounds.”

I let out a tiny sigh of relief, thinking I was saved—until she added a casual parting thought:

“Oh, and try not to hit her face or her right hand. She still needs to write her assignments.”

Me: “…?”

Once she was gone, a heavy silence descended upon the diner, leaving just me and Uncle. Hanging my head, I took the initiative to confess first:

“Uncle… I’m sorry.”

He stared at me for a long, agonizing moment before asking in a low voice, “Sorry for what?”

I twisted my sleeves nervously and squeaked out, “For… getting into a fight.”