My mother, Sarah Davis, was a celebrated educator, a state-level specialist teacher. The pressure of the upcoming SATs was immense, and my depression chose that moment to rear its ugly head. She, with a forced laugh she probably thought was witty, declared, "I simply don't have the time for your theatrics." Then, she turned her back on me, focusing instead on her star pupils, the ones she was grooming for Ivy League glory. I was left abandoned at the doorstep of my father's house, a home he now shared with his new family, a life he'd built after his divorce from my mother. A woman, rough around the edges, motioned with her chin, "Well, don't just stand there like a lump!" "Go grab a plate. The pink set's all yours." 1 The SATs loomed large, and my depression had finally spiraled. After a month of shuttling me to doctors, my mother, Sarah, had finally hit her limit. She haphazardly stuffed a few clothes into a suitcase, then practically dragged me into the car. I sagged in the back seat, boneless, like a deflated doll. As she drove, she lectured, "Girls are already at a disadvantage in academics; you have to push harder than boys to even compete." "How can you be so fragile?" "Constantly throwing around 'depression flair-up' – are you going to tell your boss that when you finally get a job?!" I remained utterly silent. She caught my blank expression in the rearview mirror, and her temper flared. "That's enough! Are we still going on with this?" "Seriously mad at your own mother? Who hasn't been chewed out at school?" She was referring to an incident in class just days before. As my math teacher and homeroom advisor, she had called on me, knowing full well my fragile state and scattered focus, deliberately putting me on the spot. When I couldn't answer, she strode down from the front of the classroom. "Hand out." The sharp crack of the wooden ruler against my palm made me flinch, but she only grew angrier. "Who told you to pull back?! Stick it out!" School policy prohibited physical punishment, but there was no rule against "educating your own child." I became the sole student in the entire school granted this grim "privilege." My classmates' eyes, a mix of mockery, pity, and morbid curiosity, burned into me. Finally, she glared. "If you can't focus, you stand! You'll stand for every single class today!" My palms were crimson, my eyes burning. The next day, for the class placement exam, I turned in a blank paper. My mother, upon hearing the news, spent the night pacing. By morning, her decision was made: "Don't blame me for being harsh. I'm a celebrated teacher, and I have several Ivy League hopefuls in my class. "I can't possibly dedicate all my time to you. Go home. Skip the exams this year. I'll help you prepare for a retake next year." 2 The car pulled to a stop in an unfamiliar apartment complex. My mother retrieved my suitcase. "This is your father's new place. The apartment number is on this note. Go on up." Seeing my hesitation, she added, with a feigned concern, "Someone's home, just ring the bell. Your dad's new wife is a real 'trophy wife' – doesn't work, just stays home with the kid." Despite her attempts to mask it, I caught the undertone of disdain in her voice. She drove off in a hurry, and I suddenly called out, "Mom, did you check my medication?" "Hmm? Oh, it's all in your backpack, remember to take it... I'm off now. Behave yourself at their place." Before she'd finished speaking, the car's exhaust fumes were already choking me. I followed the address, ascended the stairs, and knocked. The moment the door opened, I froze. My mother's "trophy wife" was, surprisingly, a stout woman with oil stains on her clothes, uncombed hair, and sleep crust still clinging to the corners of her eyes. She scrutinized me from head to toe, then, with an almost practiced gesture, tilted her chin. "What are you doing just standing there? Go get your own food. The pink dishes are yours." 3 My father's new wife asked me to call her Maria. I stood awkwardly by the doorway, taking in the room: clean, yet untidy, toys scattered across the living room floor. A little girl, perhaps four or five, sat cross-legged on the rug, clutching a fuzzy teddy bear in her arms, watching me with a mixture of suspicion and curiosity—this was my father's daughter with Maria, my stepsister, Lily. After a long silence, Lily pointed at me. "Uh-oh!" Maria peeked out from the kitchen. Seeing me still rooted to the spot, she sighed. "You planning on marrying the doormat? Go on, get your dishes!" I instinctively opened the cabinet, searching for bowls and chopsticks. I found four distinct sets of tableware. Three showed clear signs of daily use. Only one, a pink set, looked remarkably new, yet it wasn't dusty; it seemed to be washed frequently. At the dinner table, Lily tried several times to strike up a conversation. But I found myself unable to utter a single word. Finally, Lily scratched her head, excusing herself, "Maybe my sister's just having a bad day." "Or maybe she's sad because there's no ice cream?" "Mom... I..." Maria cut her off mercilessly, "She can have some, you can't." "Because a certain little cheat ate two ice creams yesterday!" After dinner, Maria hesitated before handing me a stack of paper. "Ellie? Can I call you Ellie?" "I heard... people with your condition often don't feel like talking." "So, if there's anything you need to say, would you mind writing it down for me?" I was stunned, my gaze dropping to the stack of paper, a whirlwind of emotions swirling within me. Since my symptoms had emerged, every word I spoke felt like it drained every ounce of energy from my body. My own mother's reaction had been, "If you don't feel like talking, then you need to push yourself to practice." She would deliberately pretend not to understand my hand gestures, insisting I speak, even if it left me utterly exhausted. It turned out... there was clearly a better way to handle it. 4 That evening, I slept in what used to be Lily's room. My phone buzzed suddenly. It was Mom calling. A wave of irritation instantly washed over me. I hung up, then texted her instead: "Can we just text? I really don't feel like talking on the phone." The screen showed "typing..." But in the end, nothing came through. After a long pause, the phone rang again, insistently. I hung up several times. But my mom was relentless. Finally, I resigned myself and answered. My mother's encouraging voice chirped, "That's more like it." "If you don't feel like talking, then you need to push yourself to practice." "You'll feel better if you just communicate more with people." "You're Sarah Davis's daughter, you can't give up." I spoke, my voice weak, "What do you want?" My mother instantly perked up. "I've sent you a few practice tests. Do them in the next couple of days." "Chloe Adams got the highest score in class——678, you know." "You used to be right up there with her." My voice felt dry. "Didn't you say I should retake next year?" My mother's dissatisfied tone came through the line. "I did promise you that, but are you just going to waste this whole year?!" "Since you have an extra year to study, you need to make a spectacular comeback..." "People can't just give up and coast. That's how you become useless." On the other end of the line, my mother kept chattering on and on. But I couldn't hear a word. I felt like I was suffocating. I wanted to scream, to cry, to jump from the window. But in the end, I only asked, my voice barely a whisper, "Mom... did you check my medication?" My mother didn't hear clearly. "What?" "Oh, never mind, I have to go prepare my lesson plans." "Remember to do those tests!" The call ended, and all the strength seemed to drain from my body. I collapsed onto the bed, staring blankly at the ceiling, the pill bottle within reach. My mom had never noticed that the sleeping pills the doctor prescribed had slowly accumulated, building up to a full bottle. My therapist had actually hinted at it, saying my condition was unstable and urging her to frequently check my medication. 5 Too tired to get water, I dry-swallowed the pills one by one, my consciousness slowly blurring. I imagined that when my life ended, perhaps a few tears should fall, to mourn my pathetic existence. But my eyes were bone dry, nothing to shed. Instead, a pill caught in my throat, and I couldn't help but gag. The next instant, my bedroom door burst open. Maria rushed in. I frowned slightly, annoyed. How irritating. Looks like I won't die this time. I'll have to collect another bottle... But to my surprise, Maria simply rushed to my side, her face a mask of panic, and pulled me into a tight embrace. Her voice trembled, yet it was resolute: "Sweetie, can you still hold on?" "If it's truly too painful, if you can't bear it... then Mom won't call an ambulance." "But if you... if there's even a tiny spark of wanting to live..." "Then Mom will never let fate take you!" I stared at her, stunned. Tears were actually streaming down her plump face. A single tear rolled and fell into my own dry eye. Suddenly, I burst into sobs, and then, with all my remaining strength, I tried to force my fingers down my throat. At the same time, Maria dialed 911. 6 When I next awoke, I was lying in a hospital bed, hooked up to an IV. The drip contained potassium, sending waves of stinging cold through my veins. Yet, a soothing warmth simultaneously spread across my arm. I struggled to look. Maria sat by my right side, one hand scrolling through cheesy online dramas on her phone. Her other hand ceaselessly rubbed my arm, trying to ease my discomfort. To my left was my father, who had cut short his business trip and whom I hadn't seen in ages. Seeing me awake, he instinctively frowned, as if to scold me for being so reckless. But Maria smacked him on the head. She glared, "Think before you speak!" My dad instantly quieted, reaching out to gently stroke my head. "Will you come live with Dad and Maria now, okay?" I felt a dizzying sense of disbelief. My mother had always claimed my dad was utterly blind. After all, he was a highly educated man, a former international student, yet he'd chosen a new wife she deemed "crude and unrefined." She had insisted, "She probably put some kind of spell on him." But at this moment, I started to understand why my father, after the divorce, had chosen Maria. 7 After my discharge from the hospital, Maria made a definitive statement: "No SATs this year!" "And if you don't want to take them next year, that's fine too!" She went on a full-blown guilt trip with my dad: "You just earn more money, I'll spend less, and we'll leave more for both girls." "Worst case, we still have this house." I overheard her talking to Lily by chance: "Remember how Mom used to say, 'It's okay if you're not good at school, as long as you have good character, and the house will be yours anyway, right?'" "Hmm... well, things have changed a bit. Don't you think your sister will need a place to live too, eventually?" "That's right! So, this house has to be half hers, got it?" Lily bit her finger, deep in thought. "I guess I can live in half a house." "Good then, half for sister, half for me." But I felt as though I'd been slapped awake. Dad wasn't exactly wealthy; this house was just a modest two-bedroom. Originally, Maria and he shared one room, and Lily had the other, which was perfectly fine. But after I came, to give me my own private space, the three of them had squeezed into one room. When they slept, they lay sideways across the bed. The bed wasn't wide enough, so they'd improvise by pushing a few chairs to the foot, making it work just barely. Yet, they never once complained in front of me. I silently admonished myself: Ellie Peterson, how could you be so selfish? That evening, I announced, "I want to go back to school." "I want to take the SATs." 8 The first thing upon returning to school was a placement exam to determine which class I'd join. Even though I'd missed some school, my foundation was strong, and I could solve most of the problems. So, the principal waved his hand. "Advanced Placement class." I subtly frowned. My mother taught the Advanced Placement class. I tried to argue, "Can I be in Class Two instead?" "I don't want to go to the Advanced Placement class." The principal seemed incredibly surprised but agreed to discuss it with Mr. Harrison, the Class Two homeroom teacher. "You can attend the Advanced Placement class for now." "Every second counts in senior year. It's not too late to switch classes after we've discussed it." As I walked into the classroom, it was right in the middle of my mother's math lesson. My appearance brought a sudden hush to the entire class. My mother's brow was furrowed with a hint of fatigue. "Here to see me?" "Out of pocket money?" "I'll transfer some to you in a bit. Go back for now, and I'll see you this weekend." I wheeled in a desk and chair from the hallway. "I'm here for class." My mother's expression soured. She lowered her voice. "Who told you to use my connections to get into the Advanced Placement class?" "I absolutely detest special treatment." I didn't respond, simply moving my desk and chair into the classroom and settling in. My mother, helpless, finally acquiesced. "I truly don't have time for your antics." "Just go if you want to." 9 Undeniably, my mother's teaching abilities were truly exceptional, known for her ability to simplify complex concepts and her witty, engaging style. And aside from her severity with me, she was generally well-liked by other students. Just like now, my mother produced several exquisitely packed bento boxes. "I know none of you enjoy cafeteria food." "So, today, I've made five portions of sushi myself!" "Whoever can solve this challenge problem on the board gets to eat." The school cafeteria food was indeed notoriously bad. I had previously begged my mother to bring me homemade lunches. But she would say, "Just bear with it for another year. You can eat whatever you want later." "This is senior year, a critical period. Who has time to cook for you?" "Besides, I'm eating cafeteria food too, aren't I?" Yet now, she was using her homemade sushi as a reward. I couldn't help but let a sarcastic smirk play on my lips. My mother caught sight of it and deliberately tried to embarrass me. "Ellie Peterson, you answer this one." "Since you're in the Advanced Placement class, this problem should be a piece of cake for you." I stood up, trying to force my mind to conjure a solution. But my mother kept circling me, peering at my blank scratch paper, and let out a loud, disapproving "tsk." In an instant, my mind went completely blank. Every critical word she had ever spoken to me flashed before my eyes, a frantic slideshow. Five minutes later, I dropped my head in defeat. "I... I can't solve it." My mother, as if savoring a victory, didn't let me sit down. She spun around abruptly. "Chloe Adams, you come up and show Ellie how it's done." Chloe Adams was the top student my mother constantly praised, the girl who had clinched first place in the placement exam. The girl sitting in front of me hesitated for a second, then spoke in a soft, low voice: "I'm sorry, Ms. Davis." "I'm not quite sure how to do this one either." "Could you please explain it?" She was lying. I'd clearly seen that her scratch paper was filled with the solution, and the answer was circled in red ink. My mother immediately strode to the podium, ready to explain the problem. Just then, a loud voice boomed through the classroom: "Oh my, it's almost 12:30 already, aren't these kids going to eat?" It was Maria. She stood at the door, carrying a huge bag. My mother recognized her and immediately snapped, "What are you doing here?" Maria calmly walked over to my desk, her voice full of righteous conviction. "Bringing lunch, of course." "Haven't you ever brought your child lunch?" I was stunned. Maria's house wasn't close to the school. I hadn't expected her to specifically come all this way to bring me food. She began taking out the lunch boxes, chatting casually with the other students: "You're all Ellie's classmates, aren't you?" "Come on, come on, Auntie made homemade chicken tenders and fried mushrooms today!" "Hurry and eat while they're hot!" At first, the students were shy, waving their hands in refusal. But after a morning of classes and being held late by my mom, their stomachs were growling. Their politeness lasted barely a minute. The delicious aroma wafted through the room, and they all broke. "Thank you, Auntie!" "And thanks, Ellie, we're totally benefiting from you!" I felt a bit overwhelmed. I was naturally reserved and rarely socialized with classmates. This was the first time I'd been the center of attention, and the first time I'd shared food. In stark contrast, my mother stood on the podium, guarding a few boxes of sushi. Her face was livid with fury. Just then, someone asked me, "Ellie, who is she?" Before I could answer, Maria effortlessly interjected, "I'm her nanny." My mother let out a scoff of cold disdain.
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