After the divorce, my parents split me and my younger sister between them. My mom took me. She made a schedule, meticulously detailing my every waking minute for studying. She said I couldn't lose to my sister, not by a single minute, not by a single point. She needed to prove to my dad that he was blind for giving up such a good woman. I woke up at 5:00 AM every day. She would be up even earlier, making handmade steamed buns loaded with green onions, peeling corn kernel by kernel for my porridge. I ate breakfast while staring at my vocabulary flashcards. "Breakfast takes five minutes. You should be able to memorize fifteen vocabulary words in that time. Why did you only get fourteen?" Panicking before the switch came down, I frantically flipped the page to find the word I had missed. She slammed her hand down on the book. "One word less a day means 365 less a year, 740 less in two years. You slacking off like this—is this how you repay your mother's sacrifices?" I shook my head violently, crying that I wouldn't do it again. My mom lowered her voice, becoming increasingly, terrifyingly gentle. "Mia, Mommy gave up your sister just to have you. Every single point you score is stolen straight from the love that should have gone to her. You have to have a conscience, you know that, right?" 1 The reason my mom didn't want my sister, Chloe, was because Chloe never listened to her. Growing up, our house was never quiet. Arguments erupted over anything: where the slippers were placed, the trash bag not touching the wall, not holding the rice bowl with exactly three fingers, the wrong tone of voice. They could scream from sunrise to sunset over these things. My mom said the devil was in the details, and details determined whether people would respect you or look down on you. My dad said poor people shouldn't be so damn fussy. He said he was a blue-collar carpenter. Why the hell should he wear a crisp white button-down to go eat at a diner? He didn't have a son to go win a Nobel Prize anyway. Chloe copied him. She started talking back right alongside our dad. She wasn't even afraid of getting hit. Whenever my mom tried to playfully tell embarrassing stories about us to the neighbors, Chloe would loudly interrupt and forbid her from continuing. When my mom cooked food Chloe hated, Chloe would rather starve than open her mouth. I would secretly try to persuade her. "Chloe, just take a bite. Aren't you hungry?" Chloe would cover her swollen cheek from where she'd been slapped, shaking her head stubbornly. "No. If I eat it today, I'll have to eat food I hate forever. I won't eat it. I don't care if she hits me." My mom would come to me, fuming. "Tell me, I do everything for your own good so people won't laugh at us. Why won't she listen? Am I wrong?" She looked so pitiful. My heart ached for her. "Mom, I'll listen to you." My mom would hug me, looking relieved. "My oldest is the best. So considerate. Not like your heartless little sister." But when they finally filed for divorce, the one my mom wanted to keep was Chloe. They fought in their bedroom. My mom yelled, "I don't want the oldest! She's stupid as a brick! Chloe has good grades and she's smart! Why should you get to keep the good one?!" My dad yelled back, "The oldest has always taken your side! I'm not taking a kid who isn't loyal to me!" I stood outside the bedroom door, listening to the chaos inside. Chloe walked up behind me. She handed me a hot dog on a stick. "Here, eat this. I put chili powder on it, it's really good." She glanced at the bedroom door, looking completely indifferent. "Let them fight, it'll be over soon. No matter how much they scream, you're always my big sister." "But... what if they really get divorced? Who will you live with?" "I'll go wherever you go. I don't like either of them." Unfortunately, we didn't get to choose. We split that hot dog in the hallway. Inside the bedroom, our parents split us. My mom made a vow that she would make my dad regret it. She told him not to look down on people because they would prove him wrong. 2 From that moment on, my entire life changed. My mom poured all of her "love" and attention onto me. She was determined to mold me into the absolute perfect daughter. My grades. My appearance. My personality. Every single aspect had to be better than Chloe's. At first, my age gave me the advantage. We weren't in the same grade, so looking at our overall rankings, we were fairly matched. But I was taller, and my temper was much better than Chloe's. My mom was satisfied. Until my freshman year of high school, when Chloe skipped a grade and ended up in my class. Everything changed. "She's younger than you, she eats less than you, and she learns faster than you." "She hasn't taken a single tutoring class! How can her grades be the same as yours?! Stop looking at me, look at the book! ...You've been staring at the same page for half an hour, are there flowers growing on it?! You're a year older than her! Your time is precious, how can you waste it like this?!" She slammed a jar of chili oil on the table. "Eat a spoonful. It'll wake you up." The spice jolted through me. My forehead burned, and my vision blurred with tears. The next week, my mom asked about the monthly exam scores. For the exact same test, Chloe scored one point higher than me. My mom demanded to know why. I told her there was a typo in one of the test questions. Chloe pointed it out to the teacher, so the teacher gave her an extra bonus point. "Then why didn't you point it out?" Because I didn't dare to speak to the teachers. Ever since the last parent-teacher conference, when the teacher gently suggested my mom reduce the pressure on me, my mom went to the school and then to the school board, throwing a massive fit and accusing the teacher of lacking ethics and trying to sabotage my future. Since then, the teachers barely spoke to me unless absolutely necessary. My mom saw right through me. "You coward. How are you going to survive in the real world acting like this? I guess Mommy has to help you." She grabbed my composition notebook. She flipped to her favorite essay, titled: My Mother. "Take this. Go down to the apartment complex gate or onto the subway and read it. Read it out loud for everyone to hear." That essay was essentially a self-criticism letter I had written to her, word by grueling word. It was filled with pathetic, groveling flattery that was never meant for anyone else's eyes. My scalp prickled with sheer terror. Almost instinctively, I said, "No." My mom looked at me, raising an eyebrow. "No? Are you embarrassed? Good! You should be embarrassed! Let's go. Mommy will go with you." When I was shoved out to the complex gate, it was rush hour. People were everywhere. I saw classmates who lived in the same complex. I saw Chloe walking home with her friends. My face instantly flushed crimson. My mom stopped, huffed, and said, "Right here. Read." I couldn't open my mouth. She looked deeply pained. "I got a divorce for you. I gave up my second daughter for you. And this is how you treat me? What's the point of me even living?" I had no choice but to open my mouth. A smile returned to my mom's face. "Louder." "Did you forget what Mommy taught you? Be confident! Be generous! Act like you deserve to be heard! Be elegant! Don't cry! Put some emotion into it!" A group of elementary school kids ran past, giggling and mimicking me: "My mother is the best mother in the world, she is gentle, kind, and dedicates her whole heart—" "Whole heart—" "Whole heart—" Tears spun in my eyes. I saw the shocked looks from my classmates. I saw passing grandmothers frowning, and an older man clicking his tongue in disapproval. They were all staring at me. Chloe signaled her friends, and the two girls ran over to chase the mocking kids away. A neighbor walked by. "Carol, you're disciplining the kid outside again? It's freezing, take her inside." My mom scoffed dismissively. "No pain, no gain. If I don't discipline her now, should I wait until she ends up like those motherless kids who grow up completely ruined?" The neighbor's mother had died when she was young. She frowned and shot me a look. In that moment, I suddenly understood her. I understood the confusion and pity in everyone's eyes. An unprecedented, overwhelming wave of shame swallowed me whole. Blood rushed to my face, turning my neck purple. "Mom, can we please go back? I'll listen to you from now on. I'll do three extra practice tests tonight. Please, let's go back." My mom laughed brightly. "See? I told you this kind of training works! Look at you volunteering for extra work! Come on, read it one more time." Tears rolled freely down my cheeks. On the way back, my mom was incredibly smug. "Did you see your sister's face just now? She wishes she had picked me, but I wouldn't take her if she begged. If you keep acting up, I might just go get her instead." I suddenly started dry heaving. From that day on, I developed a complex. Whenever I spoke and people looked at me and smiled, I would blush uncontrollably and stammer. I couldn't even stand at the front of the classroom to lead the morning reading anymore. I secretly went to my English teacher and resigned from my position as class representative. 3 I couldn't absorb anything the teachers were saying in class anymore. I started memorizing practice questions instead. Most high school workbooks recycled questions from other districts or schools, so I memorized all the answer keys. The next time a test rolled around, I managed to get a decent score. The smiles on my mom's face grew more frequent. She told anyone who would listen that I took after her, unlike my sister, who was stubborn and simple-minded like my dad. Other moms would ask her for her parenting secrets. She'd say casually, "Oh, there's no secret. Just give them lots of love and provide good logistical support. 'Well-rounded development' isn't just an empty slogan, you know! For example, when my girls were little, they both hated green onions and ginger. I just patiently taught them. If they didn't eat it, I wouldn't eat it either. My oldest felt bad for me, so she started eating it." The other moms nodded in admiration. My mom smiled proudly. "I've worked so hard my whole life just to prove to certain people that any child placed in my care will turn out exceptional." "Of course, of course," they agreed. The meals on our table became increasingly elaborate. During dinner at our small table, if I happened to take an extra bite of a certain dish, my mom would immediately push that plate right in front of me. But the truth was, I hated all of them. The dishes were loaded with the green onions and ginger I despised. To stop me from picking them out, she minced them so finely they were practically dust. Whatever I ate, she would eat. If I refused to eat, she would go on a hunger strike. As always, I swallowed the food whole without chewing. "Slow down, no one is fighting you for it." My mom looked at me with deep satisfaction. "See? You used to say you wouldn't eat onions and ginger, and now you've overcome it! Don't learn your sister's bad habits. She's so stubborn. Whenever I made steamed buns, I always had to make a separate filling just for her." My mind flashed back to something Chloe told me years ago. If you don't say no the first time, you'll be forced to eat things you hate forever. She took a beating, but she earned the right to have her own filling. I looked up at my mom. Her smile was gentle, and she seemed to be in a very good mood. So I asked, "Mom, can you not put onions in the food from now on? I really... don't like the taste." "You don't like it?" she asked slowly. I instantly regretted it. But it was too late. Her face darkened ominously. The next second, she slammed her chopsticks onto the table with a sharp crack. "Like it?! Do you think I like cooking? Do you think I like being a housewife? It's all for you! If everyone just did what they liked, well, I'd like you to get perfect scores! I'd like you to be number one in the class! Have you given me that?!" She grew more hysterical with every word. Finally, she grabbed the plates and violently swept them all into the trash can. "If you don't like it, then don't eat!" She kept screaming, her rage building. Suddenly, she stood up and flipped the entire table over. "I suffered so much for you! I got a divorce for you! I didn't even take your sister for you! And what do I get in return? I get you looking down on me?! I might as well just die!" She reached down, grabbing a jagged piece of a broken porcelain bowl, bringing it toward her wrist. "I was wrong! I like it—I can eat it! I was wrong, I'll never say it again!" I screamed, dropping to the floor. She stared down at me coldly. "Think about what you did wrong." Wasting food? Just as I was about to drop to my knees and dig the ruined food out of the trash can... There was a loud knocking at the door. It was the downstairs neighbor. My mom shot me a look, dropped the porcelain shard, smoothed out her clothes, and opened the door with a sweet, apologetic smile. Her muffled, gentle voice drifted in. "Oh, I'm so sorry. The kids are just acting up, sorry for the noise... She's just being a picky eater... Yes, I'm just trying to reason with her..." Her voice seemed to drift further and further away. To outsiders, she was always gentle, always appropriate. That essay I wrote played in my head on an endless loop. "My mother is the best mother in the world, she is gentle, kind, and dedicates her whole heart to me... The only thing I can repay her with is my shallow heart. Oh, my mother, I stole your youth, yet I haven't grown into the person you wanted me to be..." I suddenly heard myself laughing. The stupid garbage I wrote... it was actually hilarious. I looked down at the trash can beneath me and kicked it away.
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