mai ( part 1 ) basic overview : mai is one of the supporting characters in the novel "unwind" by neal shusterman. this is her backstory from the past leading up until her death, written by me. ☆ 1. THERE’S THIS MOMENT I KEEP GOING BACK TO. I’m seven. It’s raining. My little brother is crying because he dropped his ice cream, and my mom scoops him up and kisses his forehead like it’s the end of the world. I’m standing there, soaking wet, holding the umbrella over both of them. No one says thank you. That’s the story of my life: holding the umbrella, always forgotten in the frame. ─────── 2. I WAS NEVER THE GOLDEN CHILD. Not like my older sisters with their neat hair and perfect test scores and automatic yes-sir-no-ma’am smiles. They wore modest skirts and didn’t talk back. They knew how to stay small. Quiet. Polished. I was the disappointment no one talked about out loud. In my family—Chinese, traditional, stuck in some ghost of the old country—having a son was everything. Girls were fine, sure. But a boy? A boy carried the name, the weight, the legacy. A boy was worth the struggle. My parents kept trying. I was daughter number four. Unlucky number four. Four, sì. Death, sǐ. The pronunciation is barely different. When my little brother was finally born, it was like the sun came out. Suddenly, the house had room for laughter. My mom started humming in the kitchen again. My dad bought a camcorder just to record him crawling. They called him “the blessing.” And me? I was the shadow at the edge of the frame. They didn’t hate me. That might’ve been easier, honestly. They just looked past me. ─────── 3. MY PARENTS SAID I WAS DISRESPECTFUL. The school said I was emotionally disturbed. Some social worker with a clipboard said I had “unresolved identity issues.” They all said something. Just never anything that helped. Disrespectful, because I didn’t bow low enough or stay quiet enough. Because I talked back when they expected silence. Because I rolled my eyes at family friends who said things like, “Maybe next year she’ll grow out of this phase.” Emotionally disturbed, because I started drawing faces with their mouths sewn shut. Because I got into fights I didn’t start—but finished. Because I once told a teacher I didn’t think adults deserved automatic respect, and suddenly I was a problem. And “unresolved identity issues”? That one was my favorite. As if I was supposed to feel at home in a world that never claimed me. Too Chinese to be American. Too American to be Chinese. Too loud for tradition. Too cold for sympathy. No one said I needed understanding. ─────── 4. IT WAS LIKE I WAS THIS BROKEN SIGNAL— always transmitting, never picked up. I’d sit in class surrounded by people, and still feel like I was floating six inches off the floor. Not invisible. Just… misread. Like I was speaking a language no one bothered to learn. So I stopped trying. If I was going to be treated like a problem, then fine—I’d be one. I stopped raising my hand. I stopped apologizing. I started wearing black eyeliner like war paint and clipped a chain to my belt like I was going to battle. The dyed, dark pink hair, the spiked leather choker, the attitude—none of it was for attention. It was armor. Let them think I was a delinquent. Let them cross the street when they saw me. Let the aunties at family gatherings whisper like I couldn’t understand Chinese. At least this version of me didn’t cry in the shower. At least she couldn’t be disappointed when no one called her name. ─────── 5. I EXPECTED IT. THE DAY MY PARENTS SIGNED THE ORDER. I knew it was coming. I was going to be Unwound. But the shock still lingered, and I didn’t know how to deal with it. I yelled. I cried. I broke stuff, the shatter of glass not enough to save me from the deafening storm in my head. I didn’t care when a shard cut my toe. I gave everyone the silent treatment. I refused meals, stabbed myself. But nothing worked. I remember the day they came from me. It was a silent ordeal. No one said goodbye. My parents looked sad, but relieved. As if they were getting rid of a burden. The last piece, the last fabric of love I had for my family, my parents, broke inside me.
