The day my son was taken by human traffickers, I ran after them like a madwoman. I never expected the kidnapper to strike the back of my head so hard that my mental capacity regressed to that of a toddler. From then on, I—once an outstanding university professor—became a crazy woman everyone pointed and whispered about. I wandered off many times, but my husband always searched the world over to find me and hold me tight. My son knelt before me in remorse: “Mom became this way because of me.” “Don’t be scared, Mom. I’ll protect you.” My husband turned down social engagements to teach me how to read, day and night: “You’re the soul of this family! With you here, this house feels like a home.” My in-laws spent their life savings trying to cure my brain, even kneeling before relatives to beg for money. I thought I would slowly return to normal. But when I finally managed to write my name in shaky, crooked letters, I accidentally overheard their cries: “She’s not even human anymore… It would have been better if she’d just died back then.” That evening at dusk, I swallowed an entire bottle of pills alone. The pills were bitter. I touched the family photo and didn’t cry.
I wanted to make my son his favorite pan-seared steak. In my memories, Lucas loved the steaks I made. I took the rock-hard frozen meat from the refrigerator and, imitating what my husband Derek always did, held it under the running faucet. The ice-cold water splashed onto my face, and I giggled. Cooking. Making food for Lucas. The olive oil bottle was too high up. I stood on my tiptoes to reach it. Crash! The brown glass bottle shattered on the floor, breaking into countless pieces. Olive oil mixed with blood flowed from my palm. It hurt. But I couldn’t cry. Lucas didn’t like it when I cried. I carefully used my other hand to pick up the glass shards from the floor, wanting to hide them. The blood kept flowing, dripping onto the white kitchen tiles like blooming flowers. The meat still hadn’t gone into the pan. I grabbed the half-thawed meat, mixed with the blood and soy sauce from my hand, and stuffed it into the cold pan. I forgot to turn on the stove. I only knew I had to put the meat in. “Emma!” My husband Derek’s voice was filled with panic. He was home early today. He rushed over, snatched the raw meat from my hands, and when he saw my blood-covered hands, his eyes instantly turned red. “What were you messing with now! What happened to your hand!” His voice was loud, and I shrunk back in fear. But he didn’t yell at me again. Instead, he pulled me to the sink and carefully rinsed my wound with warm water. His movements were gentle. “It’s not your fault. I didn’t put the olive oil in a safe place.” He bandaged my hand while softly coaxing me. Finally, he placed a Band-Aid with a little red flower printed on it in my palm. “Our Emma is such a good girl. Here’s a little flower as your reward.” I looked at the little red flower in my palm and smiled foolishly. The pain seemed to really fly away. Just then, the door opened. My son Lucas walked in with a beautiful girl. It was Megan, Lucas’s girlfriend. She saw me—saw the blood and oil stains on my apron, and my hand raised to show him the Band-Aid with the little flower. She instinctively stepped back half a step. Lucas’s face darkened instantly. He strode over, picked up the raw meat I hadn’t put in the pan from the trash can, and threw it back in hard. “Who told you to come into the kitchen! Can’t you just stay put!” His voice was a hundred times louder than Derek’s had been, making my ears ring. I was terrified and hid behind Derek, clutching the corner of his shirt tightly. I didn’t understand. I wanted to cook for Lucas. Why was that wrong? At the dinner table, the atmosphere was suffocatingly tense. Derek had made many dishes, but I didn’t dare eat a single bite. I saw that Megan’s plate was empty. I wanted to serve her food, like I used to. I clumsily grabbed a rib with my hand and reached toward her bowl. Smack! Lucas slapped the back of my hand, and the rib fell onto the table. “You’re so filthy!” he growled, his face flushed red.
“Lucas! Is that how you talk to your mother!” Derek slammed his hand on the table and stood up. “Dad! Look at what she’s become! In front of Megan—how am I supposed to face anyone!” Megan’s face went pale too: “Mr. Thompson, Lucas, I’m full. I should go.” That night, I couldn’t sleep. I heard Lucas’s hushed voice coming from the balcony. “Megan, I’m sorry, my mom didn’t mean to…” “Please don’t be mad. I promise it won’t happen again…” His tone was humble, like dust on the ground. I buried my head in my blanket, and tears flowed silently. The next day, Lucas’s eyes were swollen. He blocked my doorway, warning me with an expression of seriousness I had never seen before. “Mom, Megan’s parents are coming over today to discuss our engagement.” “You are not to leave this room all day.” “Did you hear me?” I looked at him and nodded, half understanding. He seemed unsure, so he found a lock and locked my door from the outside. “Be a good girl.” I hugged my worn stuffed doll with threads coming loose at the armpit, curled up in the corner of my bedroom, and said to myself. Soon, laughter and cheerful voices came from the living room. I heard words like “wedding” and “ring.” I didn’t understand them, but I knew these things would make my Lucas happy. As long as Lucas was happy, I was happy. The sun slowly moved across the sky, and my stomach started growling. I needed to use the bathroom. I ran to the door and pounded on it. “Bathroom… need bathroom…” The laughter and conversation in the living room were too loud, drowning out my voice. No one heard me. My lower belly grew more and more swollen, more and more painful. I pressed my legs together and paced anxiously around the room, like a trapped ant. “Open door… please… bathroom…” My voice took on a crying tone. But the people outside seemed to be making a toast. The voices got even louder. I couldn’t hold it anymore. A warm liquid flowed down my thighs, soaking my pants and pooling at my feet. The smell of urine instantly filled the entire room. I stared at the puddle on the floor, frozen. Then I burst into tears, sitting on the ground and wailing like a real three-year-old child. My crying finally alarmed the people outside. The laughter in the living room stopped abruptly. The sound of a key turning in the lock, and the door was yanked open. Lucas, Derek, two middle-aged strangers, and a pale-faced Megan all stood at the doorway. They saw the room reeking of urine, and me—sitting on the ground, soaked through, utterly pathetic. Megan’s mother’s expression changed on the spot. She pointed at me and shrieked at Lucas: “This is what you call ‘getting better’? This is a bottomless pit!” “Let me tell you, I do not approve of this marriage! I will never let my daughter jump into this kind of hellhole!” Lucas’s face turned red, then white. He tried to explain: “Mrs. Carter, my mom will get better. The doctor said…” “The doctor said? You believe whatever the doctor says?” Megan’s father sneered. “With a burden like this, your whole life is ruined! Don’t even think about dragging our Megan down with you!” Megan was crying. She held onto her parents’ hands, apologizing over and over. Before leaving, she looked back at Lucas. In her eyes was despair and finality. The door slammed shut. Dead silence in the living room. Lucas collapsed onto the sofa as if all his strength had been drained. He buried his head in his hands, his fingernails digging deep into his scalp, his shoulders shaking violently. I timidly walked out of the room and stood in front of him. I pulled a piece of candy from my pocket—candy I had hidden for a long time, too precious to eat myself. I wanted to make him happy. “Lucas… candy… sweet…”
Lucas jerked his head up, his bloodshot eyes fixed on me. He swung his arm violently. “Get away from me!” He shoved me to the ground. The back of my head hit the corner of the coffee table. It hurt so much. The candy flew out of my hand, rolled into the corner, and landed in the puddle of my urine. Dirty. My candy was dirty. When Derek came home, this was what he saw. A silent son, and me, trembling behind the sofa. He quietly cleaned up the mess on the floor, wiped away those shameful traces. Then he sat down next to Lucas, his voice exhausted. “Lucas, you can’t treat your mother like this.” “She… she can’t control herself.” Those words were like lighting a fuse. Lucas shot to his feet, roaring with bloodshot eyes. “Can’t control herself? How much longer do I have to put up with this!” “Do you have any idea what my life has been like? Since I was little, everyone laughed at me for being the crazy woman’s son!” “I applied for jobs, made it to the final round of interviews, and they cut me just because they found out about my mom!” “Now even the only woman I love is leaving me! All because of her! Because of her!” He pointed at me, his finger trembling with rage. Slap! A loud slap. Derek’s hand was shaking. His lips were shaking too. “Get out!” “You ungrateful bastard! That’s the mother who saved your life!” Lucas clutched his face, staring at his father in disbelief. He let out a cold laugh, turned, and stormed out, slamming the door behind him. The tremendous bang made me scream. I desperately crawled under the table, my mouth only able to repeat: “No fighting… no fighting…” That night, I didn’t sleep. I hugged my stuffed doll and sat in the darkness of the living room, waiting for Lucas to come home. Late at night, the door opened. Lucas stumbled in, reeking of alcohol. He swayed to the sofa and collapsed onto it. I hurried over, wanting to cover him with a blanket like Derek would. He suddenly started to retch. Without thinking, I instinctively held out my hands. Warm, sour-smelling vomit landed right in my palms. I was afraid of dirtying the carpet. Lucas would be angry. The sticky sensation made me uncomfortable, but I held it in and used my other sleeve to wipe his mouth. Maybe my movements woke him. Lucas opened his bleary eyes and saw me, saw my filthy hands. The alcohol and all his grievances rushed to his head. He suddenly broke down, crying like a child. He grabbed my shoulders and shook me hard. “Mom! You weren’t like this before! You weren’t!” “You were a university professor! You were the most elegant, most brilliant woman! How did you become like this!” He shook me until I was dizzy, but I couldn’t understand his pain. I only knew my baby was crying. I smiled foolishly and clumsily tried to wipe his tears with my somewhat cleaner sleeve. “Baby… don’t cry…” My voice, my smiling face, completely shattered his last bit of sanity. Lucas’s eyes went hollow. He shoved me away. He mumbled to himself: “Megan doesn’t want me anymore… It’s all because of you… It’s all your fault…” He stared into my eyes, each word like a knife stabbing into my heart. “If I’d known saving me would turn you into this, it would’ve been better to just let you die.” “If you were dead, I’d be free.” “Dad would be free too.” “Everyone would be free.” I froze. My brain was like mush, but I understood. Even though my mind was that of a three-year-old, I understood the words “dead” and “free.” So if I died, my baby would be free. So if I died, my baby wouldn’t cry anymore.
The next day, Lucas went to work early. He had sobered up and probably didn’t remember what he’d said last night. Derek also left early in the morning. I heard him on the phone—something about borrowing money from a distant relative. I was alone in the house. It was very quiet. My baby liked quiet. I wiped every corner of the house, using my sleeves, using the hem of my clothes. It wasn’t very clean—there were streaks of water everywhere—but I did my best. Then I opened the big wardrobe that smelled of mothballs. I found the cream-colored professional suit I hadn’t worn in a very, very long time. Derek said this was my favorite outfit when I was a teacher. It took great effort to squeeze into the slightly tight clothes. The buttons were crooked, and the skirt had twisted to the side. I sat at the vanity, imitating what I remembered Megan doing. I picked up the lipstick, twisted it open, and faced myself in the mirror. I wanted to draw pretty lips, but my hands wouldn’t obey. I smeared red all around my mouth, looking like a little demon who had just eaten a dead child. The person in the mirror looked so ridiculous, so ugly. I found a piece of paper in the drawer—the paper I usually practiced writing on. I picked up a pen and, using all my strength, wrote three words stroke by stroke. “Lucas. Good.” After writing, I drew a crooked smiley face next to it. I carefully folded the paper and placed it under my pillow. After finishing all this, I brought over a chair, stepped onto it, and opened the door of the highest cabinet. Derek hid his sleeping pills here. He said he couldn’t sleep at night and needed pills. I took out the small white bottle. I remembered the pills were bitter. I was afraid of bitter things. But Lucas’s words from last night kept echoing in my ears. “If you were dead, I’d be free.” I wanted to be a good, obedient mommy. I couldn’t make my baby unhappy. I twisted off the cap and poured the entire bottle of colorful little pills into my mouth. There was no water. I just swallowed them dry. The pills scraped down my throat, burning like fire, dry and painful. I lay on the living room sofa—Lucas’s favorite spot. I held the family photo tightly against my chest. In the picture, I was smiling so gently. Lucas was still so small, perched on Derek’s shoulders. How wonderful I was back then. The pills took effect quickly. My stomach hurt so much, like countless needles stabbing me. My head was so dizzy. The ceiling was spinning. I wanted to vomit, wanted to scream. But I held it in. I clamped my hand tightly over my mouth. My baby liked quiet. I couldn’t disturb my baby. I obediently closed my eyes and adjusted my position to look like I was sleeping. The evening sunset streamed through the window, warm on my face. I didn’t feel so much pain anymore. Lucas, Mommy listened. Mommy is going to die now. You’ll be free. I floated up. My body became so light, so light, like a cloud. I saw myself lying on the sofa, wearing that ridiculous professional suit, with messy lipstick smeared on my face, holding the family photo. I looked so ugly. I saw Lucas come home from work. He was carrying a beautiful cake box, printed with the logo of Megan’s favorite bakery. He wanted to win back his girl. “Mom, I’m home.” He called out like usual, changing his shoes as he came in. No one answered from the living room. He frowned, seeming a little impatient, probably thinking I was hiding in some corner playing hide-and-seek with him again. He walked to the sofa and saw me. He paused for a moment, then snorted with laughter. “Mom, what cosplay are you doing today? Get up, you’re scaring me.” He reached out to push my shoulder, his tone carrying a hint of helpless affection. “Stop messing around. I bought cake…” His words stopped halfway. Because my body was already stiff and cold.
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