A good daughter
Once
I believed
I was the luckiest girl alive.
My family loved me so much
they never let the world
touch me.
I was never allowed
to walk outside alone.
Someone was always sent with me.
If I needed something,
they brought it home
so I would never have to step outside.
They called it
protection.
When I went to school,
my brother walked behind me.
Friends were never allowed.
“Girls don’t need too many people.”
When I asked about college,
they said,
“Why do you need that?
Stay home.
Learn the work of the house.”
Whenever I tried
to speak my mind,
they smiled and said,
“Save your opinions
for your husband’s home.”
If I left my hair open,
they asked,
“Who are you trying
to show yourself to?”
When my brother made mistakes,
they laughed—
“He’s a boy.”
But when I simply
breathed too freely,
they reminded me,
“Girls from good families
don’t behave like that.”
Sometimes
I wanted to ask—
Is my brother
not from a good family too?
They kept me
like a precious treasure
locked inside a vault.
Hidden.
Guarded.
Untouched.
But one day
that same treasure
was handed away
to a man
who didn’t even know
my favorite color.
And tonight
when I lie
in the bed of a stranger,
I wonder—
where did all those rules go
about protecting
a “good daughter”?
Maybe
without realizing it,
they taught me
the most important lesson
of all—
how to die slowly
before I ever
learned how to live.
— Jia
𝓙