1 My mother, a celebrated child psychologist, built her brand on the phrase, “Every child deserves to be seen.” At home, however, only my sister Summer existed. Summer’s tears signaled high sensitivity; mine were dismissed as emotional blackmail. When Summer’s job hunt triggered anxiety, Mom forced me to skip my final AP mocks to stay home with her. Refusing meant facing her piercing disappointment. “You robbed her security growing up,” she said. I missed the exam; my rank crashed from the top ten to the bottom five hundred. A month later, Mom launched her massive seminar, Seeing the Child. I asked for a ticket weeks ahead. Busy fitting Summer’s silk dress, she muttered, “We’ll see.” On the day, staff checked the list three times. My name was absent. Her grad students and Summer’s friends entered; I stood locked out. Through the heavy doors, her voice echoed: “Second children don’t need rigid fairness. Take my youngest—she plays the victim for attention. Strict boundaries are vital.” Applause followed. I stared at my phone’s screen, displaying a fresh clinical depression diagnosis, and texted: Dr. Mercer, you see every child in the world. Why am I the only one you refuse to look at? Silence. Mom glanced at her phone on the podium but did not reply. Suddenly, a heavy hand shoved my shoulder. My back slammed into the sharp edge of the wall. I gasped, the pain radiating through my spine. A security guard grabbed me by the collar of my faded school hoodie, dragging me toward the exit. "Dr. Mercer radioed us. Said there was an obsessive fan outside the doors radiating negative energy. That is you, right?" My voice trembled. "I am not a fan. I am her daughter." The guard let out a harsh laugh. "Dr. Mercer’s daughter is sitting in the VIP front row. The gorgeous girl in the white dress." "Who the hell are you?" Front row. White dress. That was Summer. My biological older sister. I looked down at my washed-out school uniform, the cuffs still stained with graphite and chalk dust. A sudden wave of exhaustion washed over me. I did not even know how to prove I existed anymore. I just lowered my head. "Sorry. I got the wrong person." I turned and walked toward the exit. The thunderous applause chased me out through the cracks in the doors. The wind outside was biting, slicing against my skin like blades. I raised a hand to touch my cheek, only realizing then that my face was completely drenched in tears. It took me three hours to walk home in the freezing chill. The living room was warm and loud. A massive custom cake sat on the coffee table. The frosting read: Congratulations on the Bestseller, Dr. Mercer. Summer was leaning affectionately against Mom’s shoulder while Dad held up a camera, snapping photos. Seeing me walk in, Mom finally looked up. "Autumn, what exactly did you mean by that text message?" My hands froze on my shoelaces. "I wanted to ask you why you did not save a ticket for me." Mom sighed. Her tone was so dismissively light that my cheeks burned with humiliation, making me feel like a toddler throwing a tantrum. "You have severe aggressive tendencies. Letting you into the venue would only amplify your stress response." I gripped the straps of my backpack, my knuckles turning white, my fingers visibly shaking. "But I was not going to cause a scene. I just wanted to sit and listen to you speak. Just once." Mom’s gaze was infuriatingly calm and certain. "You were there to extract attention." I stared at the pristine cake and let out a dry, hollow laugh. The back of my tongue tasted bitter. The words had been lodged in my throat for weeks. I knew asking would only humiliate me further. But I still lowered my head and asked, my voice barely a whisper. "Mom, do you even remember what today is?" Her expression faltered for a fraction of a second. Summer immediately covered her mouth, gasping with exaggerated shock. "Oh no! Autumn, is it your birthday?" Dad frowned, his face darkening with annoyance. "It is just a birthday. You get one every year. Do you really have to ruin the mood tonight?" My lips parted, but no sound came out. The last pathetic spark of hope in my chest was drowned in ice water. Mom stared at me with clinical detachment. "Autumn, stop trying to use superficial rituals to fill the void in your psyche." The words I wanted to scream died in my throat. I slowly released my grip on my backpack and reached into my pocket, my fingers brushing against the crumpled piece of paper. I had to smooth it out twice before I could hold it steady. "Dr. Mercer, I think I am actually sick." The living room fell dead silent. Tears broke free, splattering against the printed ink. "The psychiatrist said I show signs of severe clinical depression. They said I need immediate intervention." By the end, my voice had cracked into a desperate, breaking scream. "Mom, please, can you just help me?" The moment the words left my mouth, my heart hammered wildly against my eardrums. My fingertips went completely numb. Mom just glanced at the paper. "A self-assessment questionnaire does not constitute a medical diagnosis." "Anyone can score as severely depressed if they intentionally check the worst boxes." I shook my head frantically, my throat raw and burning. "I did not do it on purpose. I really cannot sleep. I cannot eat. I wake up in the mornings and my hands will not stop shaking." "I am not trying to scare you." "I just…" I just want you to save me. But the second half of that sentence got stuck, completely choked by my own sobbing. Mom looked at me, her eyes terrifyingly rational. "Your most severe issue right now is not depression." "It is your habit of packaging your jealousy as suffering, and packaging your competition for favor as a cry for help." My fingertips went rigid. Summer reached over and snatched the medical report from my hand. "Do you really have to terrify Mom with this fake stuff on the happiest night of her career?" A sharp tearing sound ripped through the room. The diagnosis was torn to shreds and tossed right next to the celebratory cake. Mom did not stop her. She only closed her eyes, looking absolutely drained and profoundly disappointed in me. "Since you love playing the victim so much, your allowance is cut off starting tomorrow." "You need to experience real survival pressure to stop this pathological whining." I bent down and began picking up the torn pieces of paper. A smear of buttercream got stuck to my thumb. No matter how hard I rubbed, the greasy sweetness would not come off. Right before I shut my bedroom door, I heard Mom’s gentle voice. "Come on, Summer. Let’s cut the cake." I stood behind my door in the dark. The sharp edge of the paper had sliced a tiny cut into my palm. A single bead of blood slowly swelled to the surface. I did not sleep a wink that night. When the sky began to turn a bruised purple, I walked out of my room with painfully swollen eyes. Mom was at the stove warming up milk for Summer. When she saw me, her brows immediately knitted together. "Why are you pulling that long face again?" I leaned against the doorframe, my temples throbbing in a vicious, rhythmic ache. "I could not sleep last night." Mom poured the hot milk into a mug and handed it to Summer. "Your sister was so terrified by your little stunt last night that she didn't fall asleep until three in the morning." "Autumn, can you stop being so incredibly selfish?" I opened my mouth, my throat so dry it felt like swallowing glass. "I did not do it on purpose." She stared me down. "You were not having insomnia." "You were simply dealing with withdrawal because you did not get the attention you were demanding last night." I stopped trying to explain. I grabbed my backpack and headed to school. The moment I stepped into my homeroom, the morning chatter completely died out. Students turned to stare at me, then quickly whipped their heads back around, whispering furiously. "Her mom is a famous shrink. Even she says Autumn has a screw loose." "Then she is definitely a psycho." My face began to burn, inch by agonizing inch. A loud ringing filled my ears, and the writing on the chalkboard blurred into a meaningless white smear. Mr. Harrison, our homeroom teacher, stood at the doorway. "Autumn. Come to my office." When I stood up, my knees buckled for a second. Someone behind me scoffed loudly. "Don't get too close. What if she snaps and attacks someone?" The office door was left slightly ajar. I could see shadows of students pressing against the glass, peering in. Mr. Harrison slid a manila folder across the desk. Recommendation for Medical Leave. I stared at those bold black letters, my brain feeling like it had been stuffed with wet cotton. "What is this?" The moment I spoke, I realized my entire body was vibrating. Mr. Harrison let out a heavy sigh. "Your mother dropped this off this morning. She stated that your emotional volatility makes you unfit for the stress of senior year. The school board agrees with her recommendation for an at-home intervention." Medical leave. Suspension. My vision whited out. "No." I grabbed the edge of his desk, my knuckles turning white. "Mr. Harrison, I am not volatile. I want to take my exams. I need to graduate." Hot tears smashed onto the manila folder. "If I can just pass my finals, if I can just get into a college out of state, I will be fine. I will survive." Mr. Harrison froze, clearly taken aback. My legs gave out. I dropped straight to my knees on the cold linoleum floor. "Please, Mr. Harrison. Please do not expel me." I heard a collective gasp from the hallway. Someone whispered loudly, "Holy crap, she actually dropped to her knees." Mr. Harrison scrambled around the desk, trying to pull me up. "Get up, Autumn. The school has to respect the guardian’s assessment." "Your mother is a licensed professional. You need to go home and communicate with her." When he finally guided me out of the office, the crowd of students in the hallway immediately scattered like a flock of startled birds. But their toxic whispers still drilled right into my skull. "She seriously looks unhinged." My hands and feet went icy numb. A suffocating wave of panic crashed into my chest. I skipped the rest of the day and ran straight home. When I slammed the front door open, I could hear Mom’s voice coming from her home office. I did not even process what she was saying. In that exact moment, my brain was entirely consumed by the word suspension. I shoved the office door open and slammed both my hands onto her mahogany desk. A water glass rattled violently, nearly tipping over. "I am not volatile!" My voice cracked so horribly it did not even sound human. "I just want to take my exams." "Why do you have to take the one single thing I have left?" Mom did not flinch. She did not yell. She simply looked up at me. Her expression was so terrifyingly calm it made my stomach drop. My chest was heaving. My fingers dug into the edge of the wood, trembling so violently I could barely keep myself standing. A soft notification chime echoed in the room. Ding. I froze. My neck felt like rusted iron as I slowly, agonizingly turned my head. A smartphone was mounted on a ring light stand. The screen was glaringly bright. She was live-streaming. Comments were scrolling past at lightning speed. [Is this the problematic second child Dr. Mercer was just talking about?] [Barging in and screaming like a lunatic? That is actually terrifying.] All the blood in my veins seemed to drain straight through the floorboards. I stood paralyzed, my limbs freezing into blocks of ice. Mom finally turned back to the camera, offering her audience a perfectly restrained, pitying smile. "As you can all see." "This is a textbook example of a crisis-oriented outburst." I stumbled a step backward. The floor felt like thin air. All the sound drained from the world. The only thing left was the blinding glare of the live comments, flashing relentlessly against my retinas. By the time I fled the house, a freezing downpour had started to fall. My school hoodie was instantly soaked, plastering to my spine. The cold gnawed straight into my bones. I crouched under the rusted awning of a bus stop just outside our subdivision. My phone screen lit up, then faded to black. Over and over again. No calls. No texts. I squeezed the phone until the metal edges cut into my palm. The only thing that finally came through was a notification from my senior class group chat. Someone had screen-recorded Mom’s livestream and dropped the video into the chat. On the screen, I was leaning aggressively over the desk, my hair a tangled mess, screaming with bloodshot eyes. A second later, a poll popped up in the chat. [Should we petition for Autumn’s suspension?] A: Yes. Everyone’s safety comes first. B: No. She needs to graduate too. The number next to Option A kept ticking upward. The chat was exploding. [Senior year is stressful enough without her dragging us down.] [What if she brings a weapon to class during one of her episodes?] Rainwater dripped into my eyes, stinging so badly I could barely keep them open. I wanted to type out an explanation, to beg them to understand. But my frozen fingers refused to cooperate. I mashed the keyboard for minutes, only producing a string of senseless typos. I deleted it all. My throat was parched and burning. I tilted my head back, opening my mouth to catch a few drops of rain. The water tasted like cold metal. The moment it slid down my throat, my empty stomach violently cramped. When the sun finally began to rise, I dug through every pocket I had and found a crumpled five-dollar bill. The cashier at the convenience store handed me a hotdog. The steam hit my frozen face. I took a tiny bite. My stomach had been empty for so long that the sudden rush of hot food brought instant, stinging tears to my eyes. "Meow." By the neighborhood flowerbeds, a little calico cat poked its head out from the bushes. It was drenched, its tail plastered with mud, but it still trotted over and gently rubbed its cheek against my wet sneakers. I crouched down, breaking the rest of the hotdog into tiny pieces for it. The calico devoured the food, purring frantically. I watched it eat, and for a second, the unbearable pressure behind my nose eased. I had been feeding this stray for a very long time. I first met it on the opening day of my freshman year. I had been hiding by this exact flowerbed, trying to memorize SAT vocabulary, crying silently as my tears ruined the pages. The calico had approached me the exact same way, tentatively brushing against my toe. It did not ask me if I was psychologically defective. It did not accuse me of competing for attention. It just leaned its tiny, warm body against mine and offered a soft meow. Since then, every time I felt like I was drowning, I would buy a cheap sausage and hide in the corner of the neighborhood to feed the strays. Watching them eat was the only thing that kept the crumbling walls of my sanity from collapsing completely. I watched the calico’s whiskers twitch as it chewed. The corners of my mouth instinctively curved upward. "Autumn?" I snapped my head up. Summer was standing at the entrance of the subdivision. All the color drained from her face. "Mom! The cat is here!" Her voice trembled hysterically. Tears instantly welled in her eyes. "I cannot take this. I literally cannot breathe. Why does she insist on bringing these filthy, diseased animals into our neighborhood?" The calico, terrified by her screaming, scrambled straight into my arms. I hugged it tightly to my chest, my own arms beginning to shake. Mom marched out of the gates a moment later. She saw the cat in my arms and her brow furrowed in deep disgust. "Autumn. Projecting your emotional dependency onto stray animals is a textbook sign of surrogate attachment disorder." My voice was so hoarse it was barely a whisper. "They are not hurting anyone." "But they are triggering your sister’s phobia." She pulled out her phone. "I am calling Animal Control." The municipal truck arrived within ten minutes. Two men hopped out carrying a heavy steel wire cage. I hugged the calico tight and backed away. My soaked sneakers sank into the muddy puddles. My toes were completely numb. "Do not take her." No one listened. I refused to let go. Finally, the two men cornered me. One grabbed my left arm, the other pried my frozen fingers back one by one, violently ripping the cat out of my embrace. The calico’s claws caught on the cuff of my hoodie in a desperate panic. The fabric tore, pulling out a long, ragged thread. The cat let out a piercing, agonizing yowl that felt like an ice pick driving straight into my temples. Summer was hiding behind Mom, sobbing dramatically into her shoulder. Her lips were moving. But I could not hear what she was saying anymore. All the noise around me sounded like it was drowning underwater. The impatient shouting of the animal control officers. The harsh clang of the steel cage snapping shut. Mom’s collected, polite voice thanking the men. It was all muffled behind a thick membrane of water. All I could see was the calico trapped inside that metal box. It shrank into the furthest corner, completely drenched, staring at me through the wire mesh. Its round, bright eyes locked onto mine. It looked like it was asking me why I did not save it. I stood frozen in the mud. The back of my hand was bleeding where the claws had scratched me. Blood mixed with the cold rain, dripping onto the pavement drop by drop. But I did not feel the pain at all. After the truck drove away, I did not cry. The rain kept pouring. My wounds turned a sickly, waterlogged white. My clothes weighed a ton, and with every step I took, my knees felt like they were sinking into quicksand. When Mom dragged me back into the house, she immediately confiscated my phone, my backpack, and my ID. "You need a total sensory detox from external stimuli." She pushed me into my bedroom and locked the door from the outside. "You will write one reflection essay every single day. I want a deep psychological analysis of why you use fake depression to terrorize your family." The first day's prompt was slipped under the door. Why I harbor malicious jealousy toward my sister. I slumped over my desk. My fingers were too weak to grip the pen properly. My forehead was burning up. The lines on the notebook paper blurred, split into double vision, and morphed back together. I held the pen, the tip hovering over the paper for hours. Finally, a single, violently jagged line crawled across the page. [I did not get jealous of her.] When Mom unlocked the door to check, she glanced at the paper and let out a cold scoff. "Still trapped in your defense mechanisms." That evening, she brought in a tray of food and suddenly stopped, staring hard at my face. "Why are your cheeks so flushed?" I opened my mouth, my throat feeling like it had been scrubbed with sandpaper. "I think I have a fever." Mom’s eyes instantly turned freezing cold. She grabbed my chin, her thumb wiping harshly across my cheekbone. "You stole blush?" I turned my head away in pain. She ignored me and started tearing apart my room, ripping open my drawers, throwing my blankets on the floor, even stripping the pillowcases. "You are so incredibly manipulative, Autumn." "You will pull any stunt to get out of doing the emotional work." When she failed to find any makeup, she finally shoved a thermometer into my mouth. I held it for a long time. The digital screen flashed 103.8. She barely looked at it. "Stress-induced low-grade fever. It is completely psychosomatic. Finish the essay before you sleep." The next day's prompt was: The psychological trauma I have inflicted upon my sister. My fever spiked even higher. My stomach felt like it was digesting itself, twisting in agonizing cramps. A plastic container of food was left by the door. The moment the smell of cooking oil hit my nose, a violent wave of nausea washed over me. I only managed to swallow two small sips of water. Through the wall, I heard Summer’s voice in the hallway. "Don't be too hard on yourself, Mom. Now that Autumn is not throwing her tantrums, I finally got a full night of sleep." I stared blankly at the ceiling. My lips were cracked and bleeding. I did not even have the energy left to hate her. On the third day, there was no food. I assumed Mom was just busy. On the fourth day, the hallway was still dead silent. I had half a bottle of water left. I rationed it into microscopic sips. Every time the water slid down my throat, it felt like swallowing razor blades. I crawled across the floorboards and knocked on the door with my knuckles. "Mom." My voice was as weak as a dying kitten’s. "I am starving." No one answered. I pressed my ear against the painted wood. I could hear the muffled, canned laughter of a reality TV show playing in the living room. Suddenly, I remembered the look in the calico’s eyes as the cage locked shut. I finally understood. When a cry for help is too quiet, it is exactly the same as not crying at all. I was just a drenched cat, locked inside a cage. On the evening of the fifth day, the lock finally clicked. Mom stood backlit by the hallway lights, frowning down at me where I lay paralyzed on the floor. "Why do you insist on making yourself look this pathetic?" I wanted to tell her that I had knocked. I wanted to tell her that I was not acting. But my cracked lips only twitched, and a heavy, metallic taste flooded my mouth. She crouched down, rubbing her temples, sounding incredibly exhausted. "Summer has been having nightmares all week. I was so stressed I forgot to remind the housekeeper to bring your meals." She paused, then added: "But you need to reflect on this too. Why do you lack the basic communication skills to vocalize your needs?" I stared at her. The halo of light behind her head began to shatter and fade into darkness. So, even at the very end. It was still my fault. Later, I heard heavy footsteps. A doctor had arrived. Mom was still explaining herself. "She has a severe tendency toward emotional manipulation." "She is exceptionally skilled at weaponizing physical discomfort to manufacture guilt." "She literally forged a clinical depression diagnosis last week." The paramedic pressed two fingers against my wrist. His face instantly drained of color. The living room went dead silent. Mom frowned. "It is purely a psychological manifestation." The paramedic looked up at her, his eyes wide with horror. "Dr. Mercer. She has absolutely no vital signs." Mom froze. She had lectured thousands of parents on stages across the country. She told them a child’s cry for help must never be ignored. Yet, she had personally, systematically ignored every single one of mine. This time, at least, I did not have to prove I was hurting anymore.
? Continue the story here ?? ? Download the "MotoNovel" app ? search for "534515", and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel