"Can surgery fix it?" Jonah’s mother asked, her brow furrowed with concern.
"The success rate for the surgery is quite low. It's not recommended," the doctor replied, leaving us all a bit stunned.
We walked out of the hospital in silence. I hated the thought of them being upset because of me. My right ear's hearing had been fading for a while, a consequence of something that happened long ago. When I was five, my dad slapped me so hard it ruptured my eardrum. Mom tried to take me to the hospital, but Dad took the money to gamble instead. He always said I acted too fragile, making a fuss over nothing and running to the hospital for every little thing. Mom was meek; she'd just hug me and cry, then give me a couple of aspirin.
The pain in my ear was unbearable at first, keeping me up all night. It felt swollen and hot. I'd cling to my mom, telling her how much it hurt. She only pat my back, telling me to close my eyes and sleep, promising it would be better in the morning. I tried, but the pain just seemed to grow.
"Mom, it still hurts," I would say, but her patience wore thin. Her eyes turned from sympathy to impatience. She'd say, "I work hard for my money. Can you stop being so delicate and grow up?" But I wasn't lying—it hurt so much. No one seemed to care.
So, I learned to endure it, biting my fingers until they bled, biting the back of my hand until it bruised. Eventually, the pain became a part of me, a habit. Night after long night, I was reminded that I was a child no one cared about.
Now, seeing this concern on their faces was almost overwhelming. I took a few deep breaths, pushing my emotions down. I smiled, though my voice was still a bit hoarse. "It's really no different from being normal. Plus, having one and a half ears is kind of cool!"
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