I stumbled upon an old forum post from ten years ago. The title read: What should I do if my daughter keeps calling my husband 'Daddy'? I chuckled. It was so absurd, so clueless. The comment section was mostly filled with people mocking the original poster. But then she got defensive. "She's only eight years old. I never taught her to call him that." "This child is so manipulative. She's always clinging to my husband." "She already knows how to seduce men at such a young age. I knew I should have had a son." Reading closer, something felt wrong. The poster's avatar was a picture of my cat. And ten years ago, I was exactly eight years old. 1 The phone felt hot in my palm. The post was like a rope, tying a past I had deliberately ignored to the present. A few days ago, my mom killed the cat I'd had for ten years. It happened the day before my dad was due back from a business trip. There was no violence, no struggle. Just an overdose of sleeping pills mixed into his cat food. Afterward, she clutched his cold, stiff body and cried harder than I did. To every neighbor who came to offer condolences, she'd say: "It's all my fault I didn't take better care of Mochi. You know how much Richard adored that cat..." No one suspected a thing. My mother looked utterly heartbroken, as if she'd lost a child. Only I knew. She was lying. Mochi wasn't my dad's favorite cat. He was mine. The last time Dad was home, he sat on the sofa with Mochi in his lap. "Our Lynn has always had good taste, even as a little girl," he'd said. "Even the cat she picked is such a cuddle bug." And for that sentence, Mochi had to die. Yes, it was that bizarre. Just like the dress Dad gave me for my 16th birthday. The next day, it was "accidentally" ruined in the wash with bleach. Just like the camera Dad bought me for my 18th birthday. Less than a week later, it "accidentally" fell from the balcony. Everything my father gave me, anything that carried a trace of his love for me, never lasted long. I used to think they were accidents. Until I found that post. Until Mochi died. Then, I finally understood. None of it was an accident. It was my mother's long, silent war against me. The day Dad came home, the atmosphere in the house was heavy. He looked at the empty cat bed, and his eyes grew red. My mother immediately nestled into his arms. "Richard, I'm so sorry. I didn't take good care of him..." He patted her back, comforting her. "It's not your fault. He was getting old. Don't be sad, look at you, your eyes are all swollen from crying." I stood to the side, feeling like a complete outsider. At the dinner table, trying to cheer my mom up, Dad announced some good news. "My birthday is next month, and the company gave me a week off. I booked us tickets to the Florida Keys. The three of us are going to have a real vacation!" My mother's eyes lit up. "Really? Oh, Richard, you're the best!" She planted an excited kiss on his cheek. He smiled back, then turned to me. "Lynn, are you happy? Haven't you always wanted to see the ocean?" Before I could answer, my mother cut in, her tone cloying but natural. "Oh, honey, Lynn needs to be focused on her studies. A trip like this will just distract her." She paused, then added in a voice full of false wisdom, "Be a good girl, Lynn. Let Mom go with Dad this time, okay? Think of it as your birthday gift to him." See? There she was again. Speaking the cruelest words in the gentlest voice. The air in the room froze. Dad shot me an awkward glance. I put down my chopsticks. "Mom's right," I said softly. "I won't go. You two have fun." With that, I fled to my room. The moment I closed the door, I heard my mother's voice turn syrupy and sweet again. "See? Our Lynn is so understanding. Honey, we're going to have such a wonderful time. We can even pretend it's... a second honeymoon." I leaned against the door, a chill seeping into my bones. This was the last straw. 2 After graduation, I applied to a university far from home. The farther, the better. The day my acceptance letter arrived, my dad was ecstatic. He called all our relatives and friends to plan a huge graduation party for me. The day of the party, the house was buzzing with excitement. I wore a new dress and accepted everyone's congratulations. Dad, having had a little to drink, was beaming. "This is my daughter!" he announced to the room. "The greatest pride of my life!" In that moment, I almost forgot all the unpleasantness of the past. But my mother would never miss an opportunity to wound me. Halfway through the party, she suddenly picked up the microphone. "Thank you all for coming to celebrate our daughter." Her gaze drifted around the room, finally settling on my father. "But the thing that makes me happiest today isn't that my daughter got into a good college." "It's that I finally get to have my husband back. All to myself." Her voice carried clearly to every corner of the room. A hush fell over the living room. Everyone stared at her, stunned. She paid them no mind, continuing to gaze lovingly at my dad. "Richard, you always said she was your little ray of sunshine. But what about me? Don't I need some of that warmth?" Her eyes welled with tears, her voice thick with emotion. "Now she's all grown up and ready to fly away. Isn't it time... you finally looked back at me?" Dad stood frozen, completely at a loss. The relatives' eyes darted between the three of us. Pity. Sympathy. Morbid curiosity. Standing in the center of the crowd in my brand-new dress, I felt naked, stripped bare in front of everyone. My mother had won again. With just a few sentences, she had turned my graduation party into her public trial. In her eyes, I wasn't the daughter of the house. I was the biggest obstacle on her path to my father's undivided affection. 3 The party ended in a cloud of awkwardness. I locked myself in my room. Through the door, I could hear the relatives' hasty goodbyes and my mother's pathetic sobs. She was crying again. Any time my dad showed the slightest preference for me, she would cry. Her tears were a weapon, expertly wielded to make him feel guilty and to paint me as the ungrateful villain. Sure enough, a knock came at my door. "Lynn, open up. Let's talk." His voice was weary. I didn't move. "Your mother... she just loves me so much, she's insecure. Don't take it to heart." There it was again. That same excuse. For as long as I could remember, it had been the catch-all justification for all of her twisted behavior. She'd lock me out of the house because she loved my dad so much and I was interrupting their time together. She'd rip up my award certificates because they had a picture of me with a male teacher, and she loved my dad so much she was afraid I'd learn bad habits and break his heart. Her actions were suffocating. "Dad," I said through the door. "Do you really think that's love?" Silence. After a long moment, I heard him sigh. His footsteps faded down the hall. He had chosen to run away from it again. That night, I thought about a lot of things. When I had a high fever as a child, he carried me to three different hospitals. When we got back, my mother didn't say a word of concern. She just stared at his sweat-soaked shirt and said coldly, "You carried her all that way, and you don't even think to hug me first when you get home." When I got my first period in middle school, I was scared and confused. He awkwardly boiled me some hot tea with ginger. My mother saw and scoffed, "Such a big fuss over a little girl's business. What's she going to be like when she's older?" I realized I remembered it all. I just hadn't wanted to think about it, hadn't dared to look too closely, hadn't wanted to believe it. 4 On the day I left for college, Dad insisted on driving me. Mom came along too. At the entrance to the dorm, I took the suitcase from him. "You should head back." He looked at me, his mouth opening and closing as if he wanted to say more. In the end, he just patted my shoulder. "Take care of yourself. If you need money, just call me." I nodded and turned to leave without a backward glance. But I could feel it—a piercing, triumphant gaze on my back. It was from my mother. College was like a shield, temporarily protecting me from the oppressive atmosphere at home. I threw myself into my studies, joined clubs, and earned scholarships, filling every waking moment. I rarely called home. Dad was always the one to call, asking how I was. In the background, I could always hear my mother's voice, just loud enough to be heard. "What's there to talk about? A daughter's not yours to keep. She'll belong to someone else soon enough." "Tell her not to waste money. That cashmere sweater I wanted you to buy me, I still haven't gotten it." Dad would awkwardly cut her off and hang up. I'd hold the phone, feeling nothing. Distance brings clarity. Using the university's library resources, I devoured books on psychology. Paranoid, histrionic, borderline personality disorders... I was like a detective, searching for a key to unlock the mystery of my mother in those cold, academic terms. Then, one day, I found it. The entries for pathological possessiveness and erotomania. The text described individuals who were incapable of processing platonic relationships, especially familial ones. They view any same-sex family member or friend as a potential rival for their partner's affection. A jolt went through me. Every word was a perfect description of my mother. It wasn't that she didn't love me. She was simply incapable of loving me as a mother. In her eyes, I was another woman competing for her man. The realization sent a wave of physical revulsion through me. I decided I had to do something. I couldn't just sit back and let her destroy my life, and what little was left of my love for my family. 5 I won first place in the university photography competition. The prize was five thousand dollars. Without telling a soul, I used the money to buy my dad a watch he'd been talking about for ages. I mailed it home, along with a copy of my award certificate. On the package, I wrote only my father's name. It was my first test. It worked. Three days after the package arrived, my mother called. Her voice was sharp, dripping with an acidity she couldn't contain. "Well, Lynn, look at you. So successful now you can just buy your father's affection?" "Mom, that was my scholarship money." "Scholarship money?" she sneered. "Who knows where that money really came from! A girl on her own... you'd better not be learning any bad habits out there!" Her words were vicious and cruel. The old me would have been in tears or screaming back at her. But now, I just replied calmly, "Mom, I also sent a copy of the photo to Mrs. Peterson. She was one of the judges. She said she'd love to visit soon and see this 'talented and dutiful daughter' for herself." The other end of the line went silent. Mrs. Peterson was my dad's oldest and closest friend. And she was the person my mother was most wary of. My mother couldn't cover this up. She couldn't destroy the watch or claim I'd gotten it through illicit means. "You..." she sputtered, speechless with rage. "Lynn, you've really grown up, haven't you? You've learned how to plot against your own mother!" "I just wanted to make my dad happy." That evening, Dad called me. His voice was filled with a joy and pride he couldn't hide. "Lynn, I got the watch! It's beautiful! This is the first gift you've ever bought me with your own money!" "I'm glad you like it, Dad." "Like it? I love it!" He rambled on for a bit, then asked cautiously, "Did... did you talk to your mom?" "Yes, I did." "She... she didn't say anything, did she?" I could picture his conflicted expression. My heart sank a little. "Dad," I began carefully. "If one day, you found out Mom had done some things that were very hard for you to accept, what would you do?" There was a long silence on the other end of the line.
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