She didn’t care about the consequences—she gave me growth inhibitors without a second thought and even wrapped my chest tightly with bandages to keep me looking small. I thought my life was already miserable enough. But then, she pushed me into an even darker abyss. My mom abruptly ended the livestream, leaving the viewers on the other side confused. “What’s going on? Why did the stream suddenly cut off?” “I wasn’t done watching my sweet little angel!” She turned to me, her face cold and unforgiving, and slapped me hard across the face. “You clumsy idiot! You couldn’t even boil water without burning yourself. Do you want people to figure out what a mess you are with that miserable expression on your face?” Sweat beaded on my forehead as I bit down hard on my pale lips. The burning pain in my foot was unbearable, and my vision started to blur. I grabbed onto her hand, pleading, “Mom, my foot hurts. It really hurts.” She yanked her hand away, her expression indifferent. “You think I care? Do you know how much money I just lost because we had to stop the livestream?” Her voice was a blur of irritation in my ears as the pain overwhelmed me. I couldn’t hold on any longer and passed out. When I woke up, I was in the hospital. My mom was still there, holding up her phone, recording me lying on the hospital bed. She spoke to her audience in a concerned tone: “Sorry for cutting the stream earlier. Little Anna accidentally burned her foot with hot water and fainted. Poor thing is still lying here in the hospital bed…” As expected, the comment section quickly filled with messages of concern and sympathy. “My poor sweet Anna!” “She got burned? Will it leave a scar? She needs to rest and recover!” “Did Anna cry? Even a little splash of hot water makes me scream, let alone something like that!” Reading this, my mom leaned in and pinched the tender skin at my waist, hard. Tears welled up in my eyes instantly, spilling over as I tried to hold back a sob. The comment section exploded again: “Anna’s crying! My heart is breaking for her!” “Don’t cry, sweetie…” My mom sighed dramatically, putting on her best exhausted expression for the camera. “Anna needs to rest now, so we’ll end the livestream here today. Thank you all for your love and support!” She ended the stream and immediately dropped her act. The cold, calculating look returned to her eyes, but there was also a glimmer of satisfaction. She patted my head the way a loving mother might, but her words were anything but comforting. “Not bad, Anna. I didn’t expect this to work so well. Your little hospital stunt really brought in more fans. Good job.” I forced a weak smile, but it probably looked worse than crying. My parents divorced when I was young, and my mom got custody of me. When I was eleven, she stumbled upon a livestream where someone was selling homemade goods. She watched in awe as the influencer raked in money effortlessly. That night, she quit her job. Her new goal? To turn me into a “cooking prodigy” and make me the next viral sensation. At first, I frowned and resisted. But my mom knew how to get what she wanted. Her eyes would fill with tears, and she’d say things like: “Anna, do you have any idea how hard it’s been for me to raise you alone all these years? Do you know how much I’ve suffered?” “This is our big break! If I can make this work, I can finally turn our lives around. If you really care about your mom, you’ll listen to me… won’t you?”
Looking at my mom, I swallowed back the words I wanted to say. And just like that, my high-achieving, soon-to-be middle school self was pulled out of school by my mom, who was absolutely thrilled about her decision. My mind felt hazy. I vaguely remember a doctor standing nearby. “Ma’am, your child is stable now,” the doctor said. “There are other patients waiting for this bed. If you keep occupying it unnecessarily, someone else won’t get the treatment they need…” She was politely trying to convince my mom to discharge me. But my mom wasn’t having it. She planted her hands on her hips, pointed a finger at the doctor, and started yelling. “What the hell is that supposed to mean? Are you seriously kicking a patient out of the hospital? Where’s your compassion? Did you lose your humanity along with your medical ethics?” The doctor frowned at her nonsense but eventually walked away, clearly unwilling to argue further. As soon as the doctor left, my mom smirked, looking smug and victorious. The area around my hospital bed was crowded with fruit baskets and flower arrangements—all sent by my “fans.” She grabbed a plum from one of the baskets and popped it into her mouth. “Pretty nice, huh? Just lying there while I’m out here killing myself for you. Do you know how hard it is for me? Pretending to be you, thanking fans, entertaining visitors? My back’s practically broken!” Then her tone softened as she reached out to stroke my hair. “But it’s all for you, sweetheart. Everything I do is for you. The money we’re earning? It’s all going to be spent on you. You’ll remember how much I’ve done for you, won’t you?” I lowered my gaze, my eyes dull and lifeless. This wasn’t what I wanted. I didn’t want fans. I didn’t want attention. I just wanted to live a quiet, normal life. As the hype around my injury finally died down, my mom declared it was time to “get back to work.” The hospital staff, probably relieved to see us go, cheerfully sent us off. The moment we got home, my mom tossed a cookbook at me. “Learn this recipe,” she ordered. “Don’t even think about sleeping tonight if you don’t get it right.” I caught the book out of habit. This was nothing new to me. But when I flipped it open, my eyes widened in shock. The recipe was for sweet and sour fish, a dish that requires years of knife skills and precise temperature control to perfect. “Mom, can I learn something else instead?” I asked, my voice trembling. She glared at me, her eyes sharp and unyielding. “Your fans love this stuff. They’re the reason we’re making money. If they want sweet and sour fish, you’ll make sweet and sour fish. Stop complaining!” I clenched the recipe tightly in my hands. If they told me to die, would I have to do that too? That night, I felt like I was losing my mind. Every word in the recipe burned itself into my brain. I moved like a machine, repeating the same motions over and over again. Chopping onions, ginger, and garlic. Scaling fish. Ten, twenty, thirty fish… My hands turned pale from soaking in water for so long. The sharp edges of the fish scales left cuts all over my fingers, blood dripping down onto the cutting board. But I couldn’t stop. My mom stood right next to me, watching my every move like a hawk.
She let out a loud yawn. “You’re so useless. You’re the reason your poor mother can’t get any sleep. God, I’m exhausted…” Her words startled me, and my knife slipped, slicing into my hand. She rushed over immediately, grabbing my hand to inspect the wound. “What were you thinking?! If you cut yourself, how are you supposed to go live tomorrow?” she snapped, her tone sharp but filled with urgency. Then, without hesitation, she brought my bleeding finger to her mouth, sucking on it to stop the bleeding. The night dragged on endlessly. By the time the sky started to lighten, my mom was already setting up the camera. She dabbed a thick layer of foundation on my face, carefully covering the dark circles under my eyes. Then, with a sharp slap to my back, she barked, “Stand up straight! Stop looking like you’re about to keel over!” I forced my heavy eyelids open and plastered on the familiar smile I had perfected over the years. “Hi, everyone! Good morning! Today, I’ll be making sweet and sour fish,” I said cheerfully into the camera. The chat lit up immediately with comments. “What? Anna’s making sweet and sour fish today? That dish is so hard—I’ve tried it a dozen times and still can’t get it right!” Standing off-camera, my mom shot me a warning look, her lips silently mouthing instructions. As I scaled the fish, I responded to the comment with a practiced tone of humility. “Actually, I’m not very good at it either. I just glanced at the recipe last night and thought I’d give it a try today.” By this point, after a sleepless night of chopping, slicing, and practicing, I had the steps down perfectly. But I knew I couldn’t make it look too easy. My mom’s sharp eyes monitored my every move, her lips twitching in a silent threat to keep me in line. An hour and a half later, I finally finished the dish. The comments exploded in praise. “Is Anna secretly a culinary prodigy? She only read the recipe once and made this? Incredible!” “Ugh, when I compare her to my son, I feel like crying. All he knows how to do is eat!” My mom’s face lit up as the compliments poured in. She leaned closer to the screen, practically whispering to herself. “Come on, send gifts. Keep sending gifts…” It was as if the viewers could hear her thoughts. “Let’s encourage Anna! Sending her a few flowers…” One gift turned into two, then ten, then dozens. The money kept rolling in, and my mom’s grin grew wider with every notification. Just as she was basking in her success, one comment popped up on the screen, catching her attention: “I’ve been following Anna for three years now. She’s really grown up into a young lady. Her body’s developing so well…” My mom’s smile froze, her brows furrowing slightly. More comments followed. “True, it’s like watching her grow up before our eyes.” “Yeah, she’s turning into a real beauty…” I felt my face drain of color, my chest tightening in silent panic. Please, just stop. When the livestream finally ended, my mom seemed pleased with the money we’d made, but her expression was darker than usual. She walked toward me with purpose, and I instinctively stepped back, my voice barely audible. “Mom…” She didn’t say a word. Instead, she grabbed the hem of my shirt and yanked it up, exposing my torso to the cold air. I froze, my entire body trembling.
“You didn’t follow my instructions?” I shook my head frantically. “Mom, that waist binder—it was too tight. I couldn’t breathe, so I took it off last night…” Before I could finish explaining, she slapped me hard again. Her eyes burned with anger. “You’re already refusing to listen to me? What will you do in the future?” My mom had decided that I was going to be a “child cooking prodigy” on social media. And for that to work, I had to look the part—I had to stay small, young. She grabbed a roll of bandages and began wrapping them tightly around my chest, layer after suffocating layer, as if she were trying to crush the life out of me. When she was done, she stepped back, looking pleased with the flat result. But then, as if noticing something else, she stood back and measured my height with her hand. “No, no. This won’t do.” She turned and started rummaging frantically through a drawer, eventually pulling out a syringe. Her grin was sharp and menacing as she advanced toward me, backing me into a corner. I sank to the floor, powerless. I didn’t want to stop growing. I didn’t want to be trapped in the body of a child forever. But my protests were useless. My eyes stared blankly as she plunged the growth inhibitor into my arm without hesitation. Every day, I lived as “Anna’s Cooking Adventures,” the account my mom had created for me. My life revolved around kitchen grease and smoke, spending late nights in the kitchen perfecting recipes. I had no freedom. But my mom’s efforts weren’t in vain. My videos caused a sensation online, gaining more and more attention. I became the “perfect child” everyone envied. Comments flooded beneath each video: “With a daughter like this, I could die happy!” “Can we trade kids? I’ll take Anna!” “Anna is officially my future daughter-in-law. Calling dibs now!” “How dare you compete with me? Anna belongs to my family!” As my popularity skyrocketed, a cooking competition show for kids reached out to my mom. When she got the offer, she was ecstatic. She made several announcement videos thanking my fans. “Anna’s going to be on a cooking show! Thank you all for your love and support!” The comments rolled in like a tidal wave: “What? My daughter is going to be on TV? Of course we’ll watch!” “Which channel? I’ll tune in immediately!” That year, I was fifteen. But I found myself standing among a group of eight- and nine-year-olds, competing against them as if I belonged. The night before the show, my mom wasn’t taking any chances. She added even more layers of bandages around my chest and injected me with another round of growth inhibitors. Under the watchful eyes of the audience, I stood out. Among the younger children, my skills and experience shone, and I advanced easily to the finals. The show became a massive hit. The unique concept and drama captivated viewers, and soon, everyone was debating the final rankings. My fans were relentless, clashing with the other contestants’ supporters online. But I had the largest following by far. To most people, my victory was already a foregone conclusion—the other kids were just there to fill the stage. When the night of the finals arrived, I stood under the spotlight, with the audience cheering my name. But during the most critical step of the competition, I lost control of the heat. The dish burned.
And so, despite being the favorite to win, I ended up in last place. “Anna just had a little slip-up this time! She’s been amazing in her livestreams and videos before.” “No one’s perfect. It’s normal for Anna to make mistakes now and then!” My fans rushed to console me, but my mom wasn’t having any of it. The moment the competition ended, she stormed backstage, clearly looking for me. Panic surged through me. If she caught me, I knew I wouldn’t escape unscathed. For the first time, I defied her—I ran. She chased after me, her voice echoing with curses. “You little brat! Just wait until I catch you. You’ll regret this!” As she was about to grab me, a figure suddenly stepped in front of me. My eyes lit up with hope. I collided into the man’s chest, and he immediately crouched to check on me. His voice was deep but gentle. “Are you okay?” My mom, trying to suppress her fury, called out in a cold tone, “Anna, come here.” But I clung tightly to the man’s shirt, my tear-filled eyes pleading with him as I shook my head. Understanding my silent request, the man stood up and positioned himself between me and my mom, blocking her view of me. My mom, now livid, snapped, “Who the hell are you? This is my child. How I handle her is none of your business!” A few onlookers started whispering nearby, and one of them muttered something just loud enough for my mom to hear. “That’s Mr. Thompson—the show’s main investor.” Instantly, my mom’s expression shifted. Her anger vanished, replaced by a forced, ingratiating smile. “Oh, Mr. Thompson! My apologies, I didn’t recognize you! Haha, silly me! So… what did you think of Anna’s performance? Wasn’t she great?” I didn’t catch the rest of what she said because Mr. Thompson gave a subtle signal, and the person who had been whispering earlier gently took my hand and led me away. Around the corner, I turned back just in time to see Mr. Thompson handing my mom a bank card. I didn’t understand what it meant, but after a while, the person escorting me told me it was time to go home. I didn’t want to go back. I sat outside the studio for hours, watching the sky grow darker and darker. But eventually, I gave in to reality and headed home. When I got there, I was surprised—my mom didn’t yell at me or hit me. For the first time, I felt a flicker of hope. Maybe it was because of that man? But then, she handed me a card. Written on it was the address and room number of a hotel.
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