My mother always said, "Life is a wilderness, and the brave enjoy the world first." True to her word, she dumped me with a nanny when I was one, spent my elementary school years chasing pop stars across the country, and traveled the globe during my high school years. She said she was herself first, and a mother second. But twenty years later, she was tired. Exhausted from a life on the road, she wanted to settle down and enjoy a peaceful retirement. She demanded I quit my high-paying job far from home and return to serve her as a dutiful daughter. I laughed and told her, "The brave enjoy the world first. I am myself first, and your daughter second." 1 I don't think my mother loved me. For as long as I can remember, she and my father were rarely home. I lived in a huge house with only our nanny, Mrs. Garcia. Mrs. Garcia would tell me that my parents missed me very much, but they were just too busy to keep me company. Half-understanding, I would suck my thumb and ask, "What are they busy with?" Mrs. Garcia could never really answer. She just repeated the same lines I’d heard countless times. When Mom comes back, she'll buy you beautiful clothes. When Mom comes back, she'll take you to eat all sorts of yummy food. When Mom comes back, you can go to the amusement park as many times as you want. When Mom comes back, she'll hug you, kiss you, and lift you high in the air. My family wasn't poor. In fact, in our small town, we were considered wealthy. It wasn't until I grew up that I realized they weren't busy making a living like most parents. They were busy chasing celebrities, traveling, seeing the world, and making charitable donations to "realize their life's value." Their lives were full and busy; they just didn't have time to care for me. But as a little girl, I didn't know any of that. I counted my birthdays, passing them one by one. When I turned eight, Mrs. Garcia had a grandson and had to return to her hometown. My mother came home. That day, I put on my favorite dress, dug out my prettiest pink hair clip, and waited, filled with a mix of excitement and anxiety. But when she saw me, my mother just frowned and snatched the clip out of my hair. "My favorite idol's official fandom color is blue! You are not allowed to wear pink anymore!" I stared at her blankly. I didn't know what a fandom color was. I just looked helplessly at my broken hair clip on the floor. Hidden behind my back, my small hand gripped a little pink flower I had picked for her, but I never brought it out. 2 It was the first time I had seen my mother in five years, but she was nothing like the mother I had imagined. She didn't cook me delicious meals like the moms on TV, nor did she miss her child desperately. She didn't cook for me. She didn't buy me new clothes. A new McDonald's had opened on the corner; all the other kids had been, but I still hadn't. From start to finish, she didn't even pat my head. She spent exactly one day making a decision: she was sending me to a boarding school. The day she left, Mrs. Garcia had picked me up from school one last time. My mother's return had been hasty, and her departure was just as swift. She carried only a small backpack. I dropped to my knees, tears streaming down my face. "Mom, please don't go. I'll miss you..." I didn't want her to leave, even though she hadn't hugged me, hadn't taken me to the amusement park, and hadn't bought me ice cream. My desk mate, Chloe, had told me: "If you don't want your mom to leave, just beg her! Moms are very soft-hearted. My mom says they can never bear to leave their babies." Chloe said that's how it always worked on TV. If a child knelt and cried, the mother would stay. That year, at eight years old, I learned a harsh truth: TV lies. I knelt. I cried. I clung to the hem of her skirt, my nose running, but she left anyway. She pushed me away and quickly got into the car, terrified I would hold her back. Then she rolled down the window halfway and said: "Life is a wilderness, and the brave enjoy the world first. I am myself first, and your mother second." I was too short to even see her face. All I saw was the black exhaust and the dust kicked up by the car tires. My father, sitting in the passenger seat, didn't leave a single word for me. Chloe's mom was a liar too. My mom wasn't soft-hearted, and she didn't care about leaving her baby! 3 I became the youngest boarder at my school, and eventually, the one who had been there the longest. Soon, I entered middle school. My parents occasionally came home for a brief visit and occasionally left me some money. In our town's middle school, many students were "left-behind children" whose parents worked in the cities. The teachers often told us that we had to study hard to make our parents' hard work worthwhile. I acted like I didn't care, but secretly, I sat up straighter and studied like my life depended on it. During my early teens, right in the middle of a growth spurt, I quickly developed severe hypoglycemia from chronic malnutrition. The day I fainted in class, the school administrators frantically called my mother. When she answered, her screaming could be heard throughout the entire office. It took her five days to finally show up. She found me at school and slapped me right in front of everyone: "Don't think I don't know you're just doing this for attention! Hypoglycemia? Why don't I know you have hypoglycemia?!" I lowered my head and begged, "Mom, can you please put some money on my meal card? I really don't have any money for food. I'm so hungry..." Before I could finish, seeing parents, students, and teachers staring at us, she flew into a humiliated rage. She slapped me across the face again, her shrill voice ringing out: "When have I ever shorted your allowance?! I put two thousand dollars on your card last time! You obviously blew it all!" "Why does a girl need to eat so much anyway? Do you think looking like a fat pig is pretty?" "All you think about is eating, eating, eating! You're clearly not focusing on your studies!" I opened my mouth, but a sob escaped first. But Mom, the last time you put money on my card was a year ago. And I'm already so skinny, my ribs are showing. I really didn't waste a cent. I wished I could spend every penny on the biggest portions of food just to fill my stomach. To feel full, I chugged cold tap water because I didn't even have the courage to spend a few cents to fill my thermos with hot water... 4 It was only later I found out that the day I fainted, the school's phone call had distracted her, causing her to miss out on buying concert tickets for her favorite idol. She stormed back not out of concern for my health, but to vent her frustration. Regardless, she ended up leaving me five thousand dollars. Holding the money, I felt absolutely no joy. My mother spent tens of thousands chasing celebrities, taking photos, and dining with her idols. Meanwhile, I shivered in thin clothes at school, clutching a meal card with less than three dollars on it, not knowing where my next meal was coming from. Five thousand dollars wasn't enough for one of my mother's concert trips, but one dollar was enough for me to buy hot drinking water for ten days. Three dollars bought six steamed buns, enough to keep me from starving for a day. Ten dollars meant I could buy a clean, new notebook instead of erasing pencil marks until the paper tore. Thirty dollars could buy a study guide that everyone else in class already had. Fifty dollars could buy me a school uniform so I wouldn't stick out like a sore thumb anymore. Money was amazing. It gave my mother wings to fly carelessly across whatever wilderness she desired. Simultaneously, it stripped away my basic needs, my dignity, and my pride. All I wanted was to live without constant anxiety. I stretched that money through my second year of middle school. By my third year, Chloe also started boarding and became my roommate. Her mother often came to school to bring her food and would tell me with a warm smile: "Oh my, I bought this shirt too small for Chloe, but it's perfect for a skinny thing like you, Maya!" "Chloe is such a picky eater, she refuses to eat these ribs. If you don't mind, Maya, why don't you try my cooking?" Chloe's mom also frequently used the excuse of having me tutor Chloe to invite me over for dinner, then slipped me "tutoring fees." Chloe's grades weren't bad; in fact, we frequently fought for the number one spot in class. I obviously knew it was just an excuse. But I didn't want to go back to that massive, empty house. It was freezing and entirely devoid of warmth. So, I shamelessly accepted the excuse and went home with Chloe. Her mom was wonderful. Plump, with a kind, genial smile and a gentle voice, very much like Mrs. Garcia. Chloe shared half her small bed with me. At night, she hugged her stuffed sheep, and I hugged her arm. The small lamp on her nightstand cast a warm, yellow glow. It felt incredibly safe and comforting. Her dad was great too. One day, I overheard Chloe's parents talking. While cooking, her mom said, "She's so young, right in the middle of growing, and so well-behaved. How can her mother be so cruel..." "For a little girl, she sure can eat a lot in one sitting..." My heart leaped into my throat. I knew I ate large portions, and I always tried to control myself. But I was so terrified of being hungry that whenever I saw that much food, I just couldn't stop. Then her dad continued: "If she's eating that much in one sitting, she's definitely been starving for a long time. Make sure you steam the rice a bit softer and cook some richer, meatier dishes to help her build her strength back up." I let out a massive breath I didn't know I was holding, tears instantly springing to my eyes. How I wished this was my home. How I wished these were my parents. No one had ever taught me what love was, but I figured having a full stomach and warm clothes was probably it. I finally believed Chloe's mom wasn't a liar. Moms were soft-hearted. It was just my mom who was different. 5 During the summer before high school, my mother gave birth to a little boy. They named him Leo. The moment my brother was born, my mother took him to see the sunrise in Paris and the sunset in London. Every time they reached a new destination, my mother would post on social media. In the photos, my brother laughed joyfully as my parents kissed his chubby cheeks. It was sweet and heartwarming. They lit up every corner of the globe for my brother, declaring him their one and only treasure. And me? The meticulous care, the soft whispers, the attention my mother showered on my brother—I had never received any of it. I pretended not to care as I navigated through the crowds of supportive parents to enter the high school placement exam center. But the traditional longevity lock they bought for him didn't work. My brother died later that year from a severe, sudden fever. I didn't know the details; I only knew that my mother went quiet for a while and stopped traveling. But my life didn't change much. I was still as poor and isolated as ever. After surviving for two months, when I was completely out of money again, I finally worked up the courage to dial her number. My mother shrieked into the phone: "Money, money, money! Is that all you know how to ask for?! Why don't you just go die?! Why was it your brother who died and not you?!" Beep. She hung up. I held the phone to my ear for a long time. Even though I knew she might not give me anything, the venom in her words still pierced me. What kind of mother uses the most vicious curses on her own child? What kind of mother wishes her own child were dead? Mine did. Yet, despite the fact that I only ever called to ask for money, not a single cent was ever added to my meal card. High school was different from middle school; the expenses were much higher. Fortunately, back then, the application process for financial aid wasn't as strict. The teachers, aware of my situation, secured a spot for me. Relying on that stipend, I scraped by through my freshman year.
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