I had the perfect mother. Not that she was perfect, but she demanded perfection from me. When I ranked third in my entire grade, she laughed coldly: "Only third? What is there to be proud of? No dinner for three days. You don't deserve to eat." When I scored a 148 out of 150 on my math final, she screamed: "Is your brain filled with trash? How could you lose those two points? Go kneel outside in the snow. Don't get up until I say so!" That time, I knelt for three hours. I had to crawl back to my room. Finally, because I cut my finger practicing the violin and fumbled during a competition, missing first place... In the dead of winter, she stripped me down and threw me into the freezing basement. I died there, cold and alone. When I opened my eyes again, I wasn't myself. I was my grandmother. Mom, this time, I’m going to treat you exactly the way you treated me. 1 When I woke up and saw the youthful face of my grandmother in the mirror, I realized I had traveled back in time. The room had a distinctly 90s layout. And there she was—my mother, Rachel—still a high school student. In that instant, all the grief and anger in my heart erupted. The tables have turned. Let's see if you can handle your own medicine, Mom. It was the dead of winter. At 5:00 AM sharp, I barged into her room. "Rachel! Get up! Time for morning recitations!" I called three times. She lay there like a log, snoring away. Furious, I threw the window wide open. The freezing wind blasted into the room. This was exactly how she used to wake me up when I was a child, regardless of whether I was sick or well. The biting cold instantly brought back memories of her control. But now, I was her mother. "Rachel, get up right now! You have three minutes, or no breakfast!" Finally realizing I wasn't joking, she sat up, eyes bleary with sleep, and started whining. "Mom, it's 5 AM..." Before she could finish, I stood by the bed and sneered. "Time's up. No breakfast. Start reciting your history textbook." Rachel was furious. "Mom, are you crazy? Who gets up at 5 AM to study?" My face was ice cold as I gritted my teeth. "Rachel, getting into an Ivy League school is war. If you slack off for even a second, you're finished." "From today on, I am implementing a high-intensity management plan for your life." She resisted in every way possible, but her resistance was futile. After all, I'm her mother. And as she used to say, "It's all for your own good." Sending her to school on an empty stomach was just a small lesson. It wasn't nearly enough. The real fun was just beginning. 2 Midterms arrived quickly. That morning, I gave her a cold instruction: "Today is your midterm. No water. No bathroom breaks. Use your recess time to review your notes." She looked at me in shock and disbelief. "Mom, it's just a midterm! No water? No bathroom? Don't you think that's a bit excessive?" I crossed my arms and sneered. "If you think this is excessive, Rachel, then you haven't seen anything yet." "Since you dare to question me, you can skip dinner too. Missing a meal won't kill you." She snapped. She exploded. She grabbed her chopsticks to eat and downed the glass of water on the table in one go. I slapped her across the face in a fit of rage and flipped the table over. Pointing a shaking finger at her, I roared, "Rachel! I am your mother! How dare you disobey me? Are you trying to rebel?!" "Look at your last monthly exam scores! I was ashamed to even look at them!" "When my friends ask about your grades, I feel my face burning with embarrassment!" These were the exact words and actions she used on me. Finally, I had the chance to return them. Seeing that exam time was approaching, I threw her backpack at her and kicked her out the door. My parting words were full of malice: "Let me tell you, Rachel, if you don't listen to me, you can go die on the streets!" "And you better get first place this time, or you'll pay for it." Rachel clutched her face, tears welling in her eyes as she cried out. "Mom, it's just a test! Do you have to treat me like this? Is a grade more important to you than I am?" I answered without a moment's hesitation. "Of course. Can studying kill you? No." "Since it won't kill you, you study until you drop. You take those tests like your life depends on it. Otherwise, get out of my house!" Rachel ran off crying. The moment the door clicked shut, I felt an incredible sense of relief. Mom, now you know. Compared to what you did to me, this is just a scratch. 3 That afternoon, I received a call from her homeroom teacher. Rachel had fainted during the exam. I paused for a second. I should have felt vindicated. But for some reason, my heart felt like it was being squeezed. It was raining outside. I ignored everything and ran to the school nurse's office. Looking at Rachel's pale face on the cot, my resolve wavered. Should I stop? After all, Mom is just a high schooler right now. But then I remembered how I developed severe depression under the high-pressure environment she created for me. She didn't care. She thought I was being dramatic. I remember her words clearly: "Depression? That's a rich person's disease. You're just full of excuses because you have it too easy." "I'm telling you, don't you dare fake being sick." Real or fake, she didn't care. She only cared about the score. I asked the nurse what happened. It was just low blood sugar from skipping breakfast. Nothing serious. I immediately turned and dragged Rachel off the bed. "The nurse said you're fine. Go back to class and study." "You fainted just because you skipped one meal? Your physical constitution is pathetic." Rachel refused to move, clinging to the bed. "Mom, I passed out!" "I just woke up and you want me to study? Am I even your biological daughter?" Seeing her resist, I slapped her again. The nurse's office went dead silent. "Do you know how precious time is before college applications?" I unleashed a barrage of verbal abuse. "Rachel, you're pulling this stunt just to avoid studying." I grabbed her arm and tried to drag her back to the classroom. Rachel struggled, crying and screaming for me to let go. I didn't care about the embarrassment. I was the mother. She was the one being humiliated at school, just like I was back then. "Get up! Get up and finish that exam!" "Stop faking it! You fainted, you didn't die! Stop being so fragile!" The students around us gasped. "Rachel's mom is a monster..." Rachel became the center of attention. I saw her ears turn red, her face flushing with shame. Just like me, she was an introvert who panicked in crowds. But the current me didn't care. Rachel couldn't handle the humiliation. She ripped the IV needle out of her arm herself. The nurse gasped, "What are you doing? You can't just rip that out!" I watched the beads of blood drip onto the white sheets. She glared at me with bloodshot eyes, expecting some pity. I sneered at the nurse. "She ripped it out? Good. That means she can go back to class. Don't waste another second." In the end, she went back to the classroom crying. I went to the teacher's office and told them to watch her closely. If she slacked off, they were to call me immediately. 4 When I got home, I started cooking. This was another thing my mother had forced me to do. "You don't have to do it for us, but you must learn how," she used to say. I guess I have to thank her now. I made Braised Fish. It was Rachel's most hated dish. But it was my favorite. Two days later, Rachel came home with her report card. She didn't say a word. I demanded the report card and sat on the sofa to review it. I deliberately made her stand there and wait. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her getting more and more nervous, her hands gripping her backpack strap tightly. Sweat beaded on her forehead. I let five full minutes of silence pass before I spoke. "The grades are acceptable." I heard her let out a breath of relief. Immediately, I snapped, "But why only a 93 in Math?" She tried to defend herself. "Mom, 93 was the highest in the class! I'm ranked fifth in the whole grade..." "Fifth? You didn't even make the top three, and you're proud? Rachel!" I stared at her coldly until she was shaking with fear. I showed no mercy. I slammed the report card onto the table with a loud thud. "Rachel, come here. Tell me, where did you lose those seven points?" Rachel stayed silent. I shoved her shoulder. "Speak! I'm asking you a question! Are you mute?" Rachel suddenly took a deep breath, looked up, and screamed at me with red eyes. "Mom! My total score is 30 points higher than last time! I fainted during the math exam and didn't finish the last big question! I did good enough!" "Good enough?" I pulled out the bamboo ruler I had prepared. "Why didn't you finish it before you fainted? Huh?!" "Put out your hand. I need to teach you a lesson you'll remember." This is exactly how my mom treated me. It didn't matter if people were watching. It didn't matter where we were. If she thought I did wrong, she hit my hands. Once, when results came out publicly and I got an 88 in English, she humiliated me in front of everyone. I begged her to wait until we got home. She scolded me instead. "You weren't ashamed to get that score, but you're ashamed that I'm hitting you?" She hit my palm 20 times in front of a crowd. My hand was so swollen I lost feeling in it. She insisted, "This is the only way you'll remember to do better next time." Now, I was going to make her remember. I raised the ruler. Whack. I brought it down on her palm. "A 93? Reflect on where you lost those points! Should you have lost them?!" I watched Rachel shrink back in terror, trembling as she stammered, "I'm in high school... I have dignity too..." I retorted without thinking, "I don't care if you're in college! You are my daughter! I'll hit you if I want!" "If you did it right, would I have to scold you?" "If I don't hit you, you'll never learn." In the end, I couldn't be as cruel as she was. I only hit her five times. But Rachel's hand was swollen. She cried and screamed that I was an evil stepmother. "A biological mother wouldn't abuse her own child like this!" Looking at her, I smiled nonchalantly. "Yeah. How could a biological mother do this?" My heart felt like it was being sliced with a knife. After all, you hit me 20 times. My hand was so swollen I couldn't hold a pen. Back then, I also wondered if I was your biological daughter.
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