Meet Me Where the Oak Tree Grows

This was my favorite, my most respected Ms. Costa. She’d secretly slip me stationery under the pretense of encouragement.
She’d always stand up for me, arguing fiercely with the principal just to secure a scholarship for a student in need—me. When she caught me
skipping lunch, she’d quietly slide her chicken drumstick onto my plate. She kept an eye on my wellbeing in class, making sure I wasn’t treated
unfairly. But now, she was hurting because of me.
In a split second, I found a surge of courage I didn’t know I had, and I rushed forward without thinking. I yanked the teacher aside and stood
protectively in front of her. I screamed at my dad to get lost, calling him a brute. A stinging slap landed across my face, leaving half of it numb and a
trickle of blood at my lip’s edge. My ears rang with the aftermath.
My first thought was, “Thank goodness I stepped in. But now, the flower I folded for the teacher will never reach her.”
It was Teacher’s Day, yet I felt unworthy of being her student.
Finally, security arrived and dragged my dad away. I slowly lifted my head and met the gazes of those around me—gazes I couldn’t quite decipher.
They hadn’t done anything, yet I felt as exposed as if I’d been stripped bare. That slap shattered Ms. Costa’s authority and my dignity, taking with it
the last bit of protection I had.
The principal approached Ms. Costa, suggesting that my staying in the dorms might jeopardize other students' safety and recommended I continue
as a day student. She wanted to speak up for me, but I couldn’t bear to keep accepting her sacrifices. I agreed to leave that night.
At that moment, I was oddly thankful that my possessions were so few; I didn’t need any help to pack up and leave. As I looked out into the pitch-
black night, I realized that starting tomorrow, the good times were over. My abuser would feel free to act even more recklessly. And once home, I’d
have to face the bitter aftermath of my defiance.
Standing at the crossroads with my luggage, I reflected on the past and imagined the future. Today, past and future mingled freely, both tinged with
the chill of early autumn. In my daze, a thought crept in: my life might be a tough, muddy path. But life carried on. So, in this river of hardship, I set off
with my broken oar.
The straightforward way to deal with violence is to meet it with violence. To give them a taste of their own medicine.
Wrapped in a thin blanket, I spent the night braving the wind on the bridge. As dawn broke, a pair of sharp eyes flashed in my mind.
About half a year ago, a family moved into our small town, setting up a tattoo shop deep in Peace Alley. Rumor had it that the mother-and-son duo
were a fearless hooligan and a madwoman. My dad was always quick to bully the weak but feared the strong. He once ranted drunkenly that the
crazy widow in the alley was a little tramp, saying anyone could have a night with her. This news reached the hooligan's ears.

That night, my dad—big and burly—was dragged home like a rag doll, his face battered and bloodied, with two broken teeth. The man, tall and
shadowed by the light, tossed him into our yard. He stepped forward and ground his heel into my dad’s fingertips, his voice icy and menacing. “If I
hear your filthy mouth about my mom again, you won’t need your tongue.”