I pressed myself tightly against Grandma's side.

At five years old, I knew with perfect clarity that from now on, Grandma was the only one I could ever rely on.

Grandma stroked my head, her voice full of resignation.

"In the end, this is the mess I made. I'll take Chloe back to the country with me tomorrow. You two… try to visit when you have time."

My days in the country were some of the few happy times I ever had.

The dogs out there weren't just for looking cute; they guarded the house, and you could actually be friends with them.

It turned out I wasn't so repellent that even dogs hated me.

Over the years, my parents only came to visit once a year, at Christmas.

They always came in a hurry and left in a hurry, their excuse being they couldn't leave their dog alone for too long.

Looking at my shabby, hand-me-down clothes and my perpetually dirty hands, my beautiful mother could never hide her disgust.

"Chloe, what has Grandma done to you? You're filthy. I swear, country people just have no sense of hygiene."

I looked at them with a certain coldness.

How could my hands possibly be clean?

Grandma was getting older and older, too frail for farm work anymore, and my school fees and food all cost money.

I couldn't bear to see her work so hard, so every day after school, I would go out to the fields to help weed the garden.

While Grandma and I were out there sweating under the sun, my parents were sipping coffee and red wine with their fancy dinners.

The year I turned fifteen, Grandma's body finally gave out.

The best person in the world to me, the one who loved me most, was just… gone.

I had to go back to the house I once called home.

The little poodle from all those years ago had grown old and feeble.

Then, my birthday rolled around.

I saw my parents take time off work, buying streamers and balloons.

A slight sting came to my eyes.

Maybe they did care about me after all.

That afternoon in class, I felt a strange restlessness.

I asked to be excused and ran all the way home.

The moment I opened the door, I froze.

The living room was warmly decorated with streamers and balloons, and a pristine white banner with bright red letters hung on the wall: HAPPY BIRTHDAY.

"What are you doing home?"

My mother's voice was laced with annoyance and embarrassment.

I looked up, and there, sitting at the table wearing a tiny birthday hat, was the old poodle.

In front of him sat a massive, three-tiered cake.

The sweet smell of the cake was intoxicating; it was a scent I had never smelled before.

I had almost forgotten.

He and I were the same age.