1 I was bored on the bus, scrolling through my phone, when a post on a forum caught my eye. The title was: “I had a horrible childhood, and now I’m jealous of my daughter. What do I do?” The top comment was: “Just make her repeat your life.” The replies were a firestorm of outrage. But I froze. The top commenter’s profile picture was identical to my mom’s. I was just killing time, but this post pulled me in. The original poster said she’d grown up with nothing. Now, seeing her newborn daughter surrounded by loving parents and doting grandparents, she felt a twist of bitter jealousy. She was asking for advice on how to handle it. Most of the replies were kind, suggesting postpartum depression and talking to her husband. Others recommended taking a vacation after her maternity leave to relax. But that one top comment was jarring: [Make her live the same life you did.] [Otherwise, how is it fair that you suffered so much, and she gets a better life for free?] People were tearing her apart, calling her a monster. But the commenter just doubled down: [I’m already doing it. I never had new clothes, so I don’t let my daughter have new clothes.] [I never had enough to eat, so I lie to my daughter and tell her we’re poor, to make her skip meals and ‘conserve.’] [As soon as I started doing it, I felt so much more balanced.] The comment section was horrified. But I just felt a cold dread creeping up my spine. Because the profile picture was my mom’s. A low-res photo of a sunflower. And the coincidence was sickening. My mom always told me we were poor, forcing me to wear my cousins’ old hand-me-downs. They were always the wrong size, and I was relentlessly bullied for it. I remember my aunt gave me a dress once. My mom smiled and accepted it. The moment my aunt left, she took a pair of scissors and cut it to shreds. She told me, with a serious face, that the world was full of bad men, and wearing dresses was "unsafe." I believed her. I didn't own a new piece of clothing until I went to college and paid for it myself with my work-study money. Looking at all these coincidences, my stomach sank. Could this "Top Commenter" be my mom? Do mothers like that really exist? My hand was shaking as I kept reading. The replies were brutal: [You’re a vile human being. If you didn’t want a kid, you shouldn't have had one. What’s the point of giving birth just to torture her?] [People like you should be sterilized. You’re a waste of resources.] The Top Commenter shot back, full of scorn: [You all feel so sorry for her, but do you even know what she’s like?] [She’s been a bad seed from day one. She stole a barrette from a classmate and then lied, telling me she saved up to buy it.] [That’s a laugh. I never give her an allowance. How could she 'save' anything?] [When I exposed her lie, she didn't even feel ashamed. She ran to her teacher, playing the victim, saying she’d collected cans for weeks. I was so angry I dragged her back and made her apologize to the entire class.] [A daughter with no morals. Why should I be good to her?] The replies were stunned: [She’s your daughter. You didn't believe her? You humiliated her in front of her whole class? She’s the unluckiest person in the world to have you as a mom.] [If I were your daughter, I would never, ever forgive you.] The commenter was unfazed: [Please. I’m a woman. I can see right through her little games.] [She’s a compulsive liar. Vain. Materialistic.] [I grew up without barrettes and I turned out fine, didn't I?] [If I don't crush those ideas out of her now, she’ll end up embarrassing me for the rest of my life.] 2 My blood ran cold. I did buy a barrette when I was a kid. All the other girls in my class had one. I was so jealous. I spent weeks collecting cans from the school dumpsters after class and redeeming them at the recycling center. When I finally had enough, I bought one. My mom saw it. She, who was always so gentle, went insane. She ripped it out of my hair. “You shameless little bitch!” she screamed. “Who did you steal this from?” I was terrified. I tried to explain. She didn't believe me. She dragged me to school and went from classroom to classroom, asking if anyone was missing a barrette. Humiliated, I told my teacher the truth. My mom slapped me, hard, right in front of her. “You’re lying to your teacher now? Is this how I raised you? You’re embarrassing me to death!” In the end, even though there was no "victim," I was forced to stand in front of my class and read a written apology. After, my mom told me it was for my own good. She didn't want me to get into the "habit of comparing" myself to others. She said we were poor, and we had to be humble. We couldn't buy things we couldn't afford, and we definitely couldn't steal. Looking at her rough, calloused hands, I was convinced. I felt sick with guilt. Here we were, barely scraping by, and I was wasting money on stupid trinkets. I never bought anything like that again. While other girls were discovering makeup and pretty clothes, I was the gray, frumpy ugly duckling. I told myself it was fine. Every family was different. My parents were doing their best. But now, I was reading a different story. I kept scrolling. Her replies were so unhinged that someone finally asked: [You treat your daughter like this. Aren’t you afraid of backlash? Aren't you scared she'll hate you?] She replied, full of pride: [I’m not stupid. You give them a slap, then you give them a sweet. I’ve got her wrapped around my little finger. She still tells me she loves me and wants to take care of me when she’s older.] I let out a bitter laugh. After every screaming match, after every slap, my mom would always calm down and give me a small piece of candy, or say a few soft words. And I would burst into tears, convinced I was the one who had done something wrong. That I wasn't grateful enough. I never imagined it was all a calculated performance. She was just forcing me to live her life. Just to make herself feel "balanced." I looked at the gift I’d bought her, sitting in my lap. I felt sick. 3 The bus slowed to a stop. We were at the station. This was my winter break. I was finally home. I’d had a million stories to tell my mom. I wanted to tell her about my classes, about life in the city, about all the new things I’d seen. Now, I just sat there. I stood in the terminal for a long time. I decided I had to confront her. I had to know. As I started walking, I glanced at the thread one last time. That's when my blood turned to ice. The Top Commenter had posted again: [I wanted to make the little bitch get a job at the local factory after high school. But she had to go and get into a good college. A good one. Now everyone back home talks about how smart she is, how she 'made it out.'] [Every time I see her proud face, it makes me sick.] [If I’d had her opportunities, I’d be a thousand times more successful.] [She's only a junior, and she hasn't been home in two years. She’s already got an attitude. Once she graduates, she’ll be gone for good, won't she?] [Hmph. When she gets back this time, I’m making sure she never leaves. She’s not getting away from us.] I gripped my phone, my knuckles white. I hadn't been home in two years because I was working two jobs to pay for tuition and rent. My mom knew that. She’d always praised me for being so responsible. What did she mean, "never leaves"? The replies asked her what she was planning. She didn't hide it: [I found her a husband. She’s getting married as soon as she’s back.] [She can live in the next town over. That way, we can all 'look out for each other.'] The forum exploded. They called her evil, inhuman. My mom was indignant: [It’s a parent’s right! I got married and stayed here, why is she any different?] [None of you understand what I went through. She can't understand my suffering unless she walks the same path.] [Besides, you have to suffer to build character. I’m doing this for her own good.] People in the thread threatened to report her, to call the police. That finally scared her. She deleted her account. My vision blurred. All the complicated, swirling emotions boiled down to one, single thought. I have to get out of here. I have to leave this family. I wiped my eyes and turned to buy a ticket back to my college town. I hadn't taken two steps before I froze. There, standing at the only exit, were my mom and dad. And a strange man. They saw me. Their faces lit up. “Maya! We’re over here!” I was trapped. This station was tiny. There was no other exit. I couldn't go back to their town. But if I made a scene here, they’d just play the "worried parents" card. The cops, if they even came, would see it as a "family dispute" and tell us to handle it ourselves. I couldn't alert them. I had to play along. I had to find a chance to run. I put on a bright, fake smile and walked toward them. “Mom! Dad! What are you guys doing here?” My mom grabbed my arm. “You haven't been home in two years! Of course we’d come to pick you up!” “Look, your dad came, too.” If this were yesterday, I’d have been thrilled. My dad had always been cold, reserving all his affection for my cousin, Kevin. He’d take Kevin fishing, buy him things, like he was his real son. My mom always sighed that I wasn't born a boy. I’d spent my childhood feeling inferior to my cousin. I glanced at the strange man next to them. “Mom, who’s this?” “Oh, this is Bucky!” she said, way too enthusiastically. “You remember Bucky, right? He used to babysit you! He has a truck, so he was nice enough to give us a ride.” Bucky looked me up and down, a weird, appraising stare. Then he gave my mom a subtle nod. I instinctively took a step back. I didn't remember Bucky, but I’d heard about him. He was the town loser. Pushing forty, no job, just drank and gambled. The only thing he had was a small inheritance his dad left him to "find a wife." Even the most desperate people in town avoided him. And my mom wanted to marry me to him. My eyes started to sting again. 4 It was around noon, and our town was still a long drive away, so we stopped at a diner. At the table, I put a piece of pot roast on my plate. My mom sighed. “I never had food like this when I was a kid. We were lucky to get scraps. You kids have it so good.” This was her routine. On the rare occasions we had meat, she’d wait for me to take a bite, then start her 'childhood suffering' speech. I would always, always, feel a pang of guilt, put down my fork, and push the meat to her and my dad. This time, I pretended not to hear her. I smiled, took a huge bite, and kept eating. If I was going to make a run for it, I needed the energy. My mom looked stunned. But Bucky was there, so she couldn't say anything. She just quietly started eating. Halfway through the meal, I felt my pocket. Wallet, debit card, ID. All there. Thank God I always keep them on me. I wiped my mouth. “I’m going to the restroom.” My mom’s eyes flicked to my suitcase by the table, then to my half-eaten plate. She knew I’d never waste food. She nodded. I stood up. I walked. The exit got closer. My heart was pounding. I was almost at the door when the waitress called out, “Hon, you’re going the wrong way. Restroom’s over there.” My blood ran cold. The next second, I heard my mom’s chair scrape back and her voice, sharp with suspicion. “Maya! Where are you going?” I bolted. If I went back to that town, it was over. My mom and dad tried to chase me, but the waitress blocked them, holding the bill. “Hey! You haven't paid!” Bucky shoved past them and ran after me. The street was crowded. I sprinted into the thickest part of the crowd. “HELP!” I screamed. “KIDNAPPER! HE’S TRYING TO TAKE ME!” People immediately turned. A few men blocked Bucky’s path. Bucky, to my horror, started yelling, “She’s not being kidnapped! She’s my wife! I caught her cheating, and she’s trying to run! Don’t let her fool you!” I couldn’t believe his nerve. But the crowd wasn't stupid. One man laughed. “Your wife? Buddy, you’re old enough to be her father. We're not idiots.” “Somebody call the cops! Get this creep away from her.” Bucky looked terrified. What he was doing wasn't that far from kidnapping, and my parents weren't there to back him up. He turned and ran, disappearing into an alley before anyone could get their phone out. I gasped, catching my breath, and ran in the opposite direction. I blacklisted their numbers. I knew they’d wait at the bus station, so I found a cab and paid him to take me to the next county over. After three different buses, I was finally back in my college city. My luggage was gone, but it was just clothes. I didn't care. I cleared out my dorm room, called my friend Jenna, and went to her place. They’d be back. They’d come to the school. But I was mostly done with my classes. I could file for an internship waiver and finish my credits off-campus. I just needed to find a job. They couldn't wait at the school forever.
? Continue the story here ?? ? Download the "MotoNovel" app ? search for "385955", and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel