66 Harsh summer sunlight robbed me of my energy as my sluggish legs carried me to my father’s brand-new meat shop with his bento box lunch. Walking past the former store, I reminisced about the days when I hated bringing my father his bento box. I hated my father. I hated my father being a butcher of Kobe beef. During summer break in elementary school, I often worked at my father’s meat shop. As soon as customers entered his store, I cheerfully welcomed them, wiping the display window of luxurious Kobe beef, which to me looked like nothing more than a bunch of cow’s muscles. I felt my cheeks flush red when my affluent friends came to visit the store, especially my classmate who I had a crush on but was out of my league (her father was a renowned doctor). My father smiled while washing all the knives and equipment, unaware of my shame. Sweeping