After the Orange Juice

*This is a work of fiction.

My stepmother told me that my father had hit her. They were getting a divorce—today.

The moment I heard it, the texture of the ocean changed. It felt as if I could walk down a staircase made of seawater, step by step, into its depths.

Our family was about to undergo yet another reproduction—like a body torn apart, dismembered into arms, a torso, and legs.

I still remember the day my mother left. She bought me a box of orange juice, and while I was drinking it eagerly, she walked away without looking back. Ever since then, the smell of orange juice has made me want to throw up. Everyone told me my mother didn’t want me anymore. An old woman in the neighborhood, always wagging her tongue, used to ask if I hated her. I said I didn’t know. They would look at me with pity. But I truly didn’t know.

Maybe the pain of my mother’s departure only became tangible at the dining table. The light above it had long since broken; we ate by the dimming light outside the window. All I could see were leftovers, my brooding father, and my own panicked silence. Each time, I would start to gag. I could smell the sickly sweetness of the orange juice from that distant afternoon, sticking to my throat, choking my voice. I couldn’t help but resent my mother. If she hadn’t left, would I have had a brightly lit dinner table, full of warmth and joy? That night, I cried as I questioned the heavens—why must I go through this, when everyone else gets to have two parents and a loving home? I cried myself to sleep, my head filled with carbon dioxide, aching and swollen. And yet, it seemed no one had an answer for me.

My stepmother’s voice continued over the phone, the static fusing with the sound of the sea around me. She said they had a quarrel. My father had picked up a stool and thrown it at her. She stumbled backward, fell, hit the back of her head. My father kicked a watermelon on the floor—it split open. Then he grabbed some lychees from a bag and hurled them at her head.

My younger sister called the police from her room. My father shouted at her, kicked the door again and again. “You want to put me into prison?” he screamed. My sister replied, “I can’t just watch you beat my mom to death.”

I asked my stepmother if she was physically okay. She said she’d gone to the hospital for an injury report, but nothing felt painful yet.

I asked if the police had taken my father away. She said no. The officers came, called it a family matter, gave him a few words of warning, and left. But the divorce was still happening, though no one could reach my father today—his phone was off.

Her words dissolved again into clumps of static, like cotton stuffing my ears. Now, all I have are temporary stops. Three to four platforms, four to five journeys, six to seven relatives. It feels like I’ve forgotten what it means to have a home for a long time. Ever since my mother’s departure, I was raised up by my grandmom, who died five years ago. I stood at the foot of her bed, unable to say a single word. That same sickly orange-juice taste climbed back up my throat and robbed me of sound. I watched them push her body away, wanted to shout something—but the air was filled with sharp, wailing cries. I didn’t shed a single tear, only the cold gray hospital walls seemed to press in on me. I moved my things out of her house mechanically. Before leaving, I glanced around the room one last time, at the unfinished eggs she had saved. I knew then that I no longer had any roots. I would always live somewhere temporarily, always ready to pause and play my life, knowing I would eventually leave again.

Later, my father married my stepmother. She was over a decade younger than him. At first, every time I saw her, it felt like my stomach was being clenched in someone’s fist—twisting with pain. I deliberately avoided her, refused to be in the same room. Eventually, I decided to move out. I packed my few belongings once again. As I was leaving, my stepmother came to the door with my suitcase in her arms. She said, “Let me help you. It's too tiring to carry it alone.” I looked at her—and suddenly, I didn’t dislike her so much as before. It hadn’t been long since I moved out, and now she was divorcing my father. So I had to pack again, to move back into my father’s place—my own rent was too expensive.

That’s how it is. I have places I can go, but still nowhere to stay. There are so many places to arrive at, yet not one I can settle in. Like a rootless dandelion, blown apart by the slightest wind, unable to return to the soil until death.

“My dad’s partner” or “my mom’s partner.” that’s how I describe them when I mention the people in my life.

I heard the call end. I rose from the shoreline, feeling the sea breeze thump against my chest. On the beach, I saw a father and son playing, and the mother sunbathing nearby. In an instant, that same tearing pain filled my body—blood and flesh ripped open—and the syrupy sweetness of orange juice surged into my mouth. I’ve never really stopped envying those born into happiness. I crave the things they take for granted—a family dinner, a vacation with both parents, a group chat where every name is a relative. But I am slowly learning to live my own life. When the bell of departure rings again, urging me to leave, I no longer cry and question the God. I simply begin to feel—it’s time to go. Each day is a stop, then a walk. I depart from a place that isn’t mine, toward another that doesn’t belong to me, keeping a face without a face.

Just like how I keep swallowing, again and again—until I realize I’m no longer afraid of the taste of orange juice.