Since I can remember, my dad and mom have always been arguing. I was only 9 years old that year. We lived in a house assigned by the academy, with damp walls, and the winter wind could seep through the cracks in the windows. In the end, my dad was adamant about getting a divorce, even saying in front of everyone, "The kids are yours, I don't want them." At that moment, I realized for the first time that a father could be so cold as to abandon his own child. I can't forget that winter night. The sound of arguing was like a saw, slowly cutting into my eardrums, until I heard a "bang"—my dad hit my mom. My mom's cries were trembling, and I was so scared that I crawled into my room and curled up under my desk. My hands were shaking, I couldn't even press the phone buttons correctly, but I still dialed 110. The police on the other end asked, "What is your dad doing?" I could hardly cry out, only choking out, "He's hitting my mom... please come save her." But when the police arrived, nothing changed. My dad insisted on the divorce. My aunt said my mom should move to my grandma's house, but I had to stay with my dad because I needed to attend the academy's affiliated elementary school. During that time, he would often explode in anger at me, even threatening that if my mom didn't sign the papers, none of us would have a good life. My mom could only visit me occasionally. Our home was so poor that we could hardly afford to buy clothes, so I had to wear old clothes given by others. There was a classmate whose family was well-off, and her mom often gave me clothes she no longer wore. There was a bright pink cotton jacket; it was thick but very old-fashioned, with sleeves long enough to cover my hands, making me look clumsy when I walked. The winter in the south was damp and bone-chilling, and that year, I endured it wearing that jacket. Once, the academy organized an outdoor movie, and I wanted to go. That day after class, I stood in the corridor outside my dad's office wearing that heavy cotton jacket, waiting for a long time. My fingers were frozen red, and the white breath I exhaled spread in the air. I finally mustered the courage to softly ask, "Dad, can I go?" He glanced at me and coldly said, "No, because you look too ugly in that." His voice was soft, but it felt like ice water pouring over me from head to toe. Later, I found out that his car was already full of friends. Just that there was never a spot left for me in that car. I studied hard, wanting to escape that suffocating home. Finally, I got into a university in Beijing and then went to Hong Kong. I thought that as long as I worked hard enough, I could escape those cold days. But it turned out that some wounds follow you no matter how far you go. Life in Hong Kong wasn't easy. For five years, I gritted my teeth to survive, and at 24, I finally earned a million a year. But that wasn't happiness; it was survival, a refusal to return to that cold house. Later, I entered the cryptocurrency world, working day and night, desperately seizing every opportunity just to ensure I would never feel helpless again. Until recently, I met someone. I thought this was the warmth that fate had compensated me with. But later, I discovered he lied to me about being divorced; in reality, he had a wife and two kids. The moment I learned the truth, I felt as if I had returned to that night when I was nine, the night my father abandoned me without hesitation. The same coldness, the same helplessness. I had once reached out to help him during his toughest times because I remembered my own past struggles. I thought sincerity could be exchanged for sincerity, but I was just a tool being used. That feeling of being deceived and betrayed made me revert to that child in the bright pink jacket, rejected, unnecessary, forgotten. It turns out that some people simply do not understand how to cherish. But I didn't expose him, nor did I let others know. I only learned to protect myself more carefully. However, I also had to admit that the experience of being abandoned as a child made me someone who desperately tries to please others. Even if it's just a little warmth, I would give everything to hold onto it because I fear that if I let go, I will be abandoned again. As a child, my dad could abandon me without hesitation, and my mom could only helplessly leave me. So as I grew up, I always humbly exhausted all my efforts to try to keep others around. Because I have been through the rain, I always can't help but hold an umbrella for others. But sometimes, while I am holding it, I realize that I have already been soaked through. The wind is still that same wind, bone-chillingly cold. I have changed countless jackets, but that bright pink cotton jacket remains like a brand, always stuck to my heart, bringing coldness. I thought I had walked out of that damp house, but it turns out that no matter how far I go, I have only changed places, continuing to be that person waiting in the corridor for a ride. Perhaps for the rest of my life, I will have to learn to walk back alone, wrap my coat tightly, swallow my tears, and then in the corners where others can't see, slowly warm myself up.