After spending $600 to buy my mom a new washing machine, she did nothing but complain that it didn't wash clean. "Honestly, you're pretty calculating. You didn't even split the $10 you got from selling the old washer with your sister; you just pocketed it yourself." My face suddenly flushed. I thought she was joking, so I forced an awkward smile and asked her why she would think that. She rolled her eyes at me and changed the subject: "This piece of junk washer leaves the sheets and duvet covers soaking wet." I took a look and realized she was using the 15-minute "Quick Wash" cycle. As I adjusted the settings for larger loads and explained which cycles to use for which clothes, she pushed me aside and stubbornly turned the dial back to "Quick Wash." "Your sister said Quick Wash saves water and is gentler on clothes." She got angrier as she spoke, slamming the laundry basket down. "You calculate every little thing! It's not like you're paying the water bill, so of course you don't care. Unlike your sister, who considers everything for us." My heart went cold. I called the junk hauler, paid him $20 to buy the old washer back, and moved the new one into my own apartment. 1 I got an $800 bonus from a project at work, and I immediately thought of the washing machine at my parents' house. It was over a decade old, the kind of ancient machine where you had to manually take the wet clothes out and put them into a separate spin-dryer tub. Sometimes, when washing heavy items, they would soak up so much water that it was a huge struggle for my mom to lift them. She'd almost thrown her back out several times. I specifically took half a day off on delivery day. Watching the junk hauler carry away the old washer, I felt a warm glow inside, thinking about how surprised and happy my mom would be when she got home. My mom came back from her Zumba class, opened the door, and froze. Still holding her workout towel, she stood in the doorway of the bathroom, staring at the new washing machine for a long time. "Where's the old one?" she asked. "Sold it to the junk guy," I said, wiping down the control panel of the new machine. "Only got ten bucks for it." Her expression instantly changed, and she threw her towel onto the sofa with a smack. "Who gave you permission to make that decision?!" Her voice was shrill enough to startle me. "That washer still worked fine!" I thought she was just being her usual frugal self, so I hurried to explain. "Mom, this new one is energy-efficient and quiet, and it can..." "Spendthrift!" she cut me off, turning on her heel and marching into the kitchen. She turned the faucet on full blast, vigorously scrubbing a dishcloth that didn't even need washing, as if she were venting her anger. She didn't speak to me for the rest of the night, not even touching the macarons I had specially bought for her. Two days later, while I was at work, my phone suddenly rang. As soon as I answered, I heard her yelling on the other end: "What kind of piece of junk washing machine did you buy?! It doesn't wash clean at all!" When I rushed over, she was pulling bedsheets out of the drum. Detergent had clumped together, sticking to the soaking wet fabric, and water was dripping down, forming a small puddle on the floor. I crouched down to check what was wrong. "Honestly, you're pretty calculating," she said suddenly. My fingers paused, and I looked up at her. She was scrubbing the outside of the washing machine hard with a rag, not even looking at me. "You didn't even split the ten bucks you got from selling the old washer with your sister; you just pocketed it yourself." I thought I misheard her. "Huh?" "Ten dollars." She finally straightened up and threw the rag heavily into the sink. "You even scheme over such a petty amount of money." My face suddenly burned. I laughed awkwardly. "Mom, why would you think that..." She rolled her eyes at me and turned to pull the duvet cover out of the drum. "This piece of junk washer leaves the sheets and duvet covers soaking wet." Only then did I notice she had been using the 15-minute "Quick Wash" cycle. No wonder the detergent hadn't even fully dissolved. As I adjusted the settings for larger loads and explained which cycles to use for which clothes, she pushed me aside and stubbornly turned the dial back to "Quick Wash." "Your sister said Quick Wash saves water and is gentler on clothes." She got more agitated as she spoke, slamming the laundry basket down heavily. "You calculate every little thing! It's not like you're paying the water bill, so of course you don't care. Unlike your sister, who considers everything for us." 2 I finally understood what she was really upset about. Everything in this house, in my mom's eyes, belonged to my sister, Chloe. Even a broken-down old washing machine that could only fetch ten dollars. Even though I spent $600 buying her a new washing machine, I shouldn't have taken that ten dollars from the old one; I should have given it to my sister. My hand was still resting on the washing machine's control panel, my fingertips turning cold. My mom stood nearby, impatiently shaking out the clothes that needed to be rewashed, waiting for me to move out of the way. "Mom," my voice trembled slightly. "Do you really think that ten dollars should have gone to Chloe?" She furrowed her brow. "Who cares about ten dollars? I'm just saying that you as a person are..." "Do you?" I interrupted her, my voice sharper than I intended. "Do you think the money from selling that washing machine should belong to Chloe?" "That's not what I meant!" My mom suddenly raised her voice. "I just think you act too selfishly, never considering anyone else." That sentence was like a key, suddenly unlocking the floodgates of memory. Two years ago, when they remodeled the kitchen, they sold the old cabinets for $150. The money was wired directly to Chloe's account. At the time, my mom said, "Your sister is a bit strapped for cash right now." But back then, I had just put down the deposit on my apartment, and the monthly mortgage payments were so high I couldn't sleep at night. "It's been like this since we were little," my voice grew steadier. "As long as it's something in this house, it eventually becomes Chloe's. You were even afraid I was taking advantage by taking the money for a broken washing machine." My mom suddenly slammed the laundry basket down again. "What nonsense are you talking about!" "Nonsense?" I pulled out my phone. "What about the tea set Grandpa left behind last year? You said you wanted to save it for Chloe because she 'knows how to appreciate it.' But Grandpa explicitly said he was leaving it to me!" The washing machine emitted a shrill beep; the Quick Wash cycle was over. My mom yanked the door open, a blast of damp air from the wet clothes hitting my face. "Your sister has always been thoughtful since she was little," she said, shaking the clothes vigorously, water droplets splashing onto my face. "Unlike you, always nitpicking over every little thing." I wiped my face, suddenly remembering something from college. That year, I saved up my work-study money to buy my mom a cashmere sweater. Without even trying it on, she said the color was too dull. Later, I saw that exact sweater on Chloe's Instagram, with the caption saying it was a new outfit Mom bought her. "Nitpicking?" I let out a laugh, took out my phone, and dialed the junk hauler. "Hey, Frank, could you bring back that washing machine from the other day... yeah, the one I sold you for ten bucks... Pay extra? How much? ...Fine, twenty bucks it is." My mom snapped her head around. "What are you doing?!" "Buying my sister's washing machine back," I said, hanging up the phone. My voice was so light it didn't sound like my own. "After all, it's ten dollars. I can't just pocket that all by myself." Her face instantly turned bright red. "Are you crazy? Why are you wasting money buying that junk back?!" "Wasting money?" I nodded. "I spent six hundred dollars on this new washing machine. It was the bonus from the project I worked late nights to finish. Do you know what I use? The broken, secondhand washer the previous owner left behind. It sounds like a tractor when it runs. I'll take this new one back for myself to use. This way, no one wastes any money, and you can keep living with your precious sister's washing machine." My mom opened her mouth, seemingly unable to believe I would say such a thing. After all, I had always been incredibly obedient to her, never showing a hint of defiance. She was so angry she couldn't speak for a long time. I made another call to schedule a mover for the new washing machine that afternoon. After hanging up, the room was terrifyingly quiet, save for my mom's heavy breathing. "Mom," I said softly. "Do you remember the year I took the SATs?" Seeing my tone soften, she thought I was about to apologize. Her attitude immediately became arrogant, and she let out a cold snort. "I had a fever of 102 degrees, but you said Chloe had finals the next day and we couldn't disturb her sleep." My nails dug deeply into my palms. "I sat alone in the urgent care clinic getting an IV drip until 3 AM." My mom was completely enraged now. She grabbed a plastic hanger and hit me on the back. "Why are you bringing up ancient history!" My back stung with fiery pain. I couldn't help but think of how, whenever it rained when we were kids, my mom waiting at the school gate always only had one umbrella—the one meant for Chloe. My mom would always say, "You're older than your sister. Run faster and you won't get wet." "You know what," I said, picking up my purse and heading for the door. "Sometimes I really wish you'd just say it straight. Just say you like Chloe more. Just say everything in this house belongs to her." As the door clicked shut behind me, I heard a loud crash from inside. She had probably thrown the laundry basket again. 3 The movers were quick. The new washing machine was moved to my apartment that same day. When we went to pick it up, my mom blocked the doorway, refusing to let us move it. In the end, I had to call the building super to come help carry it out. And that old washing machine was placed exactly back in its original spot. That night, as I was assembling the hookups for the new washing machine, my sister called. As soon as I answered, her shrill voice pierced my eardrum: "Are you serious? Causing such a huge scene over a stupid washing machine!" I crouched on the floor, still holding a screwdriver. "Am I the one causing a scene, or is Mom? Do you even know what happened?" "You've been like this since we were little!" She completely ignored what I said. "Whenever you see me have something, you have to fight Mom for it. Now you're even fighting over a washing machine. Mom is right, you act like a beggar!" The screwdriver trembled in my hand. I suddenly remembered buying my apartment two years ago. I could have bought the place I liked in cash. But Chloe said she wanted to go on an exchange program abroad. My mom cried at home all day, saying the art school was too expensive and she felt like she was failing Chloe. Seeing my mom's red, swollen eyes, my heart softened, and I gave her $30,000. Then I took out a mortgage to buy my place. I'm still paying it off. "A beggar? Since you brought it up," my voice was surprisingly calm, "when do you plan on returning the thirty thousand I gave you?" The other end of the line went suddenly quiet. "What... what do you mean?" Chloe's voice was noticeably weaker. "You know how much I make right now..." "When you came back to the States last year, you said you'd pay me back as soon as you found a job." I jammed the screwdriver hard into the toolbox. "It's been over a year now. You've changed jobs twice, bought a three-thousand-dollar designer bag, but you just don't have the money to pay me back?" "You!" She suddenly raised her voice. "Mom is right, you're cold-blooded! You deserve it that Mom doesn't love you!" The call disconnected. The dial tone sounded exceptionally harsh in the empty apartment. I crouched next to the new washing machine and suddenly laughed out loud. It's true, Mom doesn't love me. Everyone knows it, but I was the only one still deceiving myself. I picked up my phone and sent Chloe a text message: "Transfer the money to my card by next week. Otherwise, I'm coming to your work to cause a scene." When we were little, Mom would buy Chloe new dresses, while mine were made from Chloe's hand-me-downs. When I thought they were ugly and refused to wear them, Mom would coax me, saying: "Your sister's clothes are good quality." Now, I no longer plan to yield or wrong myself. Even if the price is finally admitting that the person I tried so hard to please will never love me. 4 By Monday noon, my bank account balance remained unchanged. Chloe hadn't replied to my messages or called me. I stared at my phone screen, suddenly feeling a bit ridiculous. She probably thought I would just swallow my anger and let it go, like always. At 3 PM, I hired four friends who were personal trainers and went to the dance studio where Chloe worked. They wore black tank tops, their arm tattoos faintly visible. Standing at the studio entrance, they immediately drew the side-eyes of the parents waiting there. "Who are you looking for?" the girl at the front desk asked, her voice trembling. My friend showed a picture of the IOU on his phone: "Looking for Chloe Evans. We're here to collect a debt." In less than five minutes, my phone started vibrating wildly. Chloe's voice was tearful: "Are you crazy?! Make them leave! There are kids here!" "Where's the money?" I asked calmly. "Where am I supposed to get thirty thousand dollars right now?!" she practically screamed. "Hannah, are you trying to drive me to my death?" I listened to the noisy background sounds on her end—the murmurs of the parents and the crying of the kids. Unable to handle the pressure, Chloe burst into tears. This scene was all too familiar to me. From childhood to adulthood, as long as she cried, the whole world would make way for her. "Then we'll do it my way," my voice was light, but very clear. "Every day at 2 PM, they will wait for you punctually at the studio entrance. Until you pay off your debt." "You!" She suddenly lowered her voice. "Mom is right, you're just a..." I hung up immediately. Ten minutes later, my mom's call came in as expected. The word "Mom" danced on the screen. I stared at it for a long time until the ringing stopped. She called three more times in a row, and I muted them all. Towards evening, my friend texted: "Your sister was scared out of her mind. She hid in the bathroom crying the whole time. An old lady came running over and yelled at us, saying she was her mother." I replied with a cash tip via Venmo to express my thanks, then opened my photo gallery and scrolled to a family portrait from last Thanksgiving. In the photo, Chloe, wearing an expensive dance outfit, stood in the center. Mom had her arm around Chloe's shoulder, smiling with pride. And I stood on the far edge, wearing a sweater bought on sale. My finger swiped across the screen, and I opened another folder. Inside were a few yellowed old photos. In them, a seven-year-old me wearing an obviously oversized dance leotard stood on the stage of the community center. That leotard was altered by Mom from an old dress of Chloe's. The lace on the collar was yellowed from washing. I still remember that summer. I secretly saved my allowance for half a year just to afford the tuition for the dance class at the community center. Every time I went to class, I had to arrive half an hour early to hide in the bathroom and change from my school uniform into the leotard, because Mom wouldn't let me learn, saying it was a waste of money. "Your limbs are as stiff as a board," she always said. "You look like a duck when you dance." But for that recital, the teacher specifically chose me as the lead dancer. I gathered the courage to tell Mom. What I got in return was a slap across the face: "Who gave you permission to make that decision?!" On the day of the performance, I was dancing enthusiastically when I suddenly saw Mom storm onto the stage angrily. In front of everyone, she grabbed me by my ponytail and dragged me off the stage. "You dance so ugly and you still go on stage, aren't you embarrassed?" Her voice echoed through the entire auditorium. I will never forget the surprised looks of the kids in the audience and the awkward expression on my teacher's face. And Chloe? When she was five, Mom signed her up for the most expensive private dance lessons. "Our Chloe is going to pursue the arts in the future," she told everyone she met. "So she can take fewer detours." But Chloe was afraid of pain. It wasn't until she was ten that she could barely manage a backbend. Every time she practiced basic skills, she cried hysterically. Mom would hold her and coax her: "Stop practicing, stop practicing. Our Chloe is so talented, she doesn't need to practice these." Later, when Chloe graduated high school, her academic grades were terrible. Mom insisted on spending tens of thousands to send her to an arts college. The teachers at that third-rate arts school shook their heads when they saw Chloe's dance video, but Mom insisted, "You guys just don't know how to appreciate art." Later, Chloe threw a fit about wanting to study abroad for a semester, and Mom took out all her retirement savings. "Foreign education resources are better," she explained to our relatives, never mentioning a word about how that money was what I was supposed to use to buy a house. In the photo, seven-year-old me has bright eyes, not yet knowing that I would never get a single word of praise from my mom in this lifetime. And the present me, who finished college on scholarships, working as a manager in a multinational corporation, still couldn't compare to Chloe, who taught dance at a children's art center. In Mom's eyes, at least Chloe had an artistic dream, while I was just a cold-blooded money-making machine. I locked my photo gallery just as the washing machine beeped. The clothes were done washing, emitting a faint lavender scent. I shook them out one by one, suddenly noticing an old pajama set pressed at the very bottom. It was a hand-me-down Chloe didn't want anymore last year. I picked up the pajamas and threw them into the trash can without hesitation. Just like throwing away the dance dreams I desperately suppressed for so many years to please my mom. 5 But I never expected that before my friends could go back to Chloe's studio, my mom would find her way to my office first. She made a huge scene in the lobby of my company. Her voice was sharp enough to pierce the glass doors: "You heartless thing! I raised you, and this is how you treat your sister?" The young receptionist shrank back in fear. A few colleagues poked their heads out of the elevator. Mom intentionally wore an old winter coat today, and deliberately left her hair uncombed, looking exactly like an old woman bullied by her unfilial daughter. "You just want to cause a scene, don't you?" She suddenly lunged at me, trying to grab my hair. "Everyone can cause a scene!" I stepped aside to avoid her, pulled out my phone, and dialed a number right in front of her. "Hey, Mark, take ten guys to Chloe's dance studio right now." I intentionally raised my voice. "Yes, right now." My mom's hand froze in mid-air, her expression looking like she had suddenly been choked. "You... you wouldn't dare!" her voice started to tremble. I turned the phone screen towards her, showing the ongoing call. "I'm not afraid of losing face, but I wonder if Chloe is?" I lowered my voice. "Ten guys standing at the classroom door. Do you think those parents will still let their kids learn dance from her?" My mom's face instantly turned deathly pale. She knew this daughter's weak spot too well. The thing Chloe cared about most was her pathetic pride. "You've changed," her voice suddenly dropped. "You used to never be like this..." "Yeah, I've changed." I sneered. "Because I don't want to be that idiot kneeling and begging you for a glance anymore." A memory suddenly flashed back to when I was twelve. I won first place in a school poetry recitation competition. When I rushed home excitedly to show Mom my certificate, I found her helping Chloe practice a simple nursery rhyme. Chloe couldn't even sing in tune, yet Mom clapped until her hands were red. "Do you remember my elementary school graduation?" I asked suddenly. "You said you were too busy at work to come. But that day, I saw you in the corner of the playground giving Chloe a popsicle." Mom's eyes darted away for a second, but she quickly hardened her heart again. "Why are you bringing this up now? Chloe has always..." "Always needed special care, I know." I cut her off. "But I don't need it. Push me too far, and I'm capable of anything." "Do you think you can still control me?" The security guards had gathered around. Mom finally realized this tactic wasn't working. She glared at me fiercely one last time. "Karma will get you!" Watching her stumbling away, I suddenly remembered a dream I had last night. In the dream, seven-year-old me wore that ill-fitting dance leotard, dancing freely on an empty stage. No mockery, no interruptions, and no one rushing up to drag me off. My phone buzzed. It was a text from Chloe: "I transferred half the money. I'll pay the rest next month. Tell them not to come." I didn't reply, just put the phone back in my pocket. The elevator doors slowly closed. The mirror reflected my calm face. It turns out, burning bridges feels much more liberating than I imagined. 6 I knew they wouldn't let it go so easily. Sure enough, within two days, they started acting up again. A message tagging me popped up in the family group chat. It was a voice memo from Chloe. I tapped it on speaker. Her tearful voice immediately exploded in the room: "Hannah, are you trying to drive me to death? I really don't have any money right now! I can barely pay my rent this month..." Following that was a 60-second voice memo from Mom. I didn't even need to listen to know the contents. It was the same old tired rhetoric: "ungrateful monster," "heartless," etc. Sure enough, halfway through, I heard her screaming: "You think you're so tough now, huh? Even scheming against your own sister!" I sneered and scrolled up the chat history. I found that my aunts and uncles had long joined the crusade: "We're all family, why make it so ugly?" "Your sister is having a hard time right now. As the older sister, can't you be a little accommodating?" "Young people these days, no sense of family loyalty at all..." My finger hovered over the screen for a few seconds. I suddenly found it extremely ridiculous. These people didn't say a word when Mom humiliated me in public. They played deaf and dumb when Chloe stole from me. Now they're all acting like champions of justice. I opened my photo gallery and dumped all the pre-prepared photos of the IOU, transfer records, and chat screenshots of Chloe promising to repay the loan into the group chat. Then I typed slowly and deliberately: "I originally wanted to give you some leeway, but now, within three days, transfer the remaining fifteen thousand dollars to my card." "Otherwise, see you in court. Don't blame me for not warning you when you become a deadbeat debtor." The group chat instantly became terrifyingly quiet. I could imagine those relatives on the other end of the phone, eyes wide, fingers hovering over the screen, not daring to press down. In less than two minutes, a private message from Mom popped up: "Do you have to make this so ugly? If your sister becomes a deadbeat debtor, how will she get married? How will she find a job?" I could almost hear her grinding her teeth. In the past, whenever she acted like this, I would soften and back down. But this time, I replied directly: "Why didn't she think about that when she borrowed the money?" "You're ruthless! I raised you for nothing!" she replied immediately. Looking at that sentence, I suddenly remembered when I was in college. I lived frugally, eating instant ramen for half a month straight just to buy her a birthday present. After she received the gift, she turned around and gave it to Chloe. "Yeah," I typed out word by word. "You raised me just so I could be a human ATM for Chloe." After sending that sentence, I left the family group chat entirely. Those so-called relatives were only ever spectators. Let them think what they want. In all the years I was bullied, none of them ever spoke up for me anyway. My phone vibrated again. It was a call from Chloe. I declined it immediately. She then sent a message: "Hannah, I really don't have the money. Please give me a few more months..." I replied firmly and decisively: "Three days. Not a penny less." "Are you trying to ruin me?!" she replied instantly, adding an angry emoji. Looking at that sentence, I suddenly laughed out loud. How ridiculous. She was the one who borrowed money and refused to pay it back, and now it's my fault for ruining her? "You ruined yourself." I replied, then put the conversation on 'Do Not Disturb'. 7 When the doorbell rang, I was organizing litigation materials. Through the peephole, I saw Mom standing awkwardly outside. She was carrying a bulky plastic bag, her hair slightly messed up by the wind. Today, she surprisingly wore a relatively new winter coat, instead of the faded, worn-out jacket she usually wore. "Who is it?" I asked intentionally. "It's Mom," her voice came through the door, carrying a deliberately softened tone. "I brought you some home-cured meat." I opened the door, and a gust of cold wind carrying the salty, fishy smell of cured meat hit my face. Mom immediately thrust the plastic bag towards me: "Look, I brought this especially for you. You loved it when you were little." I didn't take it. She just pushed past me and squeezed inside, leaving muddy footprints from her shoes on the floor. She walked familiarly towards the kitchen, the plastic bag rustling: "You kid, why throw such a big tantrum over a few words? Still as stubborn as when you were little." The sound of the refrigerator door opening came from the kitchen, followed by her exaggerated gasp: "Oh my, why is the fridge empty? What do you usually eat? Don't tell me you order takeout every day." She poked her head out, feigning a look of heartache. "Let Mom cook a meal for you?" I didn't say anything, walking to the dining table to look at what she brought. The plastic bag contained a few bags of expired dates, an opened tin of lotus root powder with only a little left, and a package of cured meat wrapped in old newspaper. The newspaper was stained with grease. It was probably ancient inventory dug out from the very bottom of her freezer. "No need," I put the lotus root powder tin back. "I don't like spicy food." Mom's hand froze as she was washing it at the sink. The faucet was running. With her back to me, her shoulders stiffened slightly. "Nonsense. Didn't you love the meat I cured when you were little? You used to eat two big bowls of rice with it every time." Ten years ago, that winter, I was hospitalized with acute gastroenteritis. The doctor advised a bland diet. Mom, however, insisted on bringing her specially made spicy cured meat, claiming it would stimulate my appetite. The truth was, she had a craving for spicy food while keeping me company at the hospital. I forced myself to finish it despite the stomach pain. I vomited violently in the middle of the night, but she complained that I was being delicate. "I was faking it," I said. The faucet was jerked shut. Mom turned around, not even drying her hands. Dark water stains were left on her clothes. "What do you mean?" "I don't like spicy food. I never have." I heard my own voice sound very calm. "Just like I don't like Chloe's hand-me-downs, I don't like being treated as an ATM, and I don't like always being put last." Her expression started to contort. That familiar look of anger mixed with guilt resurfaced on her face. "I went through so much hardship raising you, and this is how you repay me?" "I worry about your health. I spend $500 every year to take you for checkups. I saw you stressing about Chloe not having money for her exchange program, stressing so much you got sores in your mouth, so I gave you $30,000 and took out a mortgage to buy my own place. All these years, I've been by your side every time you got sick. When has your precious Chloe ever done that?" I counted on my fingers. "Does none of this count as repayment?" "That's what you're supposed to do!" She suddenly raised her voice, the mask of maternal love completely shattering. "You're the older sister! Isn't it right to yield to your younger sister?" "I'm your mother. Isn't it right for you to do these things?" I looked at her face, flushed red with anger, and suddenly found it absurd. I had actually wronged myself for thirty years for a person like this. "You should leave." I pulled the front door open, letting the cold wind rush in. "The lawsuit will not be withdrawn, and the money must be returned." Her lips trembled, a hint of panic flashing in her eyes. "Are you really going to be this ruthless?" "Compared to what you guys did to me," I smiled, "what is this?" "I'm warning you, don't make a scene here. I'm not afraid. If you really want to cause a scene, I have ways to cause a scene with Chloe." I watched her cheap lipstick-painted lips open and close a few times. Ultimately, she couldn't say a word. She just violently yanked off her apron, threw it on the floor, and stormed out without looking back. The moment the door clicked shut, I picked up that package of cured meat and threw it into the trash can.
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