Perhaps I'm simply not suited to survive in this family. Every time I live here, I end up bringing pain and harm to everyone in the household. I've never done a single good thing, and who even knows the number of wrongs I've committed? All the suffering—I alone, deep in my heart, understand the magnitude of mistakes I've made and the outcomes I've received time and again. But what's the use of regret? Others won't truly forgive me. Even if they say they do, deep down, they no longer intend to let it go—they're merely coping, pretending to manage me, dealing with me over and over again.