Growing up, I always thought I was a broken piece of trash who couldn’t enjoy the “good things” in life. Seafood sent me into anaphylactic shock. Beef gave me severe rashes. Whenever I got greedy and sneaked a bite of the premium ingredients on my brother Marcus’s plate, my mother would look as if she were facing a mortal enemy and force a bowl of “desensitization medicine” down my throat. After drinking it, I would inevitably vomit and suffer from violent diarrhea, ending up bedridden for two whole days. I was filled with tearful gratitude, genuinely believing she was saving my life. Until my checkup at age twenty. The doctor stared at my clean allergen report, his brows furrowed. “You are perfectly healthy. You don’t have any food allergies at all.” I froze. That afternoon, I went home early. I broke into the cabinet where my mother kept the “medicine” locked away, took some of the residue, and ran to a local pharmacy. The pharmacist sniffed it for a long moment, his face turning incredibly grave. “This is a highly toxic, severe herbal emetic and laxative. Long-term ingestion of this can cause permanent infertility. You must not take this under any circumstances.”
“Maria, dinner is ready. Why aren’t you home yet?” Caller ID: Mom. I declined the call. The pharmacist probably noticed how pale I had turned. His voice softened, filled with concern. “This medicine… are you the one taking it?” “My mother has been giving it to me. Since I was five.” He was completely stunned. Even a man who had practiced medicine for forty years didn’t know how to respond to that. I put the herbal residue into a ziplock bag, stuffed it into my pocket, and walked out the door. The streetlights had just flickered on. After walking through two intersections, I saw a Japanese restaurant. Through the glass window, I saw a mother peeling shrimp for her daughter. I stood there for ten seconds, then pushed the door open. “Table for one? Right this way, please.” I sat down and flipped open the menu. Salmon sashimi, sweet shrimp, sea urchin, grilled mackerel. I pointed at them. “I want all of this.” When the dishes arrived, the orange-pink salmon was laid beautifully over shaved ice, the sweet shrimp curled translucently, and the sea urchin glowed like a miniature sunset. For twenty years, I had only ever seen these things on Marcus’s plate. I picked up my fork, took a slice of salmon, and put it in my mouth. It was cool, melting into a rich, buttery flavor on my tongue. The moment the savory taste wrapped around my taste buds, I instinctively braced myself—waiting for the rashes, the tightness in my throat, the difficulty breathing. Ten seconds. Thirty seconds. A minute. The skin on my wrists remained perfectly clean. My breathing was completely smooth. I ate a sweet shrimp. Nothing happened. I took a spoonful of sea urchin. Still, nothing happened. I sat in that quiet corner alone, finishing the entire table of seafood. The soy sauce dish was empty, the wasabi scraped clean, and I even stuffed the last piece of pickled ginger into my mouth. And then, tears began to stream down my face. It wasn’t out of joy. It was because for twenty years, it turned out I could eat absolutely anything. My phone lit up again. It was my mother’s fourth call. I picked up. “Where on earth are you? Just because David isn’t home doesn’t mean you can just skip dinner, right?” “Mom, I already ate.” “Ate what? How can your stomach handle random food outside? Get back here right now. I warmed up some tomato bisque for you.” “No, thanks.” “What do you mean, ‘no’? Your complexion has been terrible lately. Don’t you need to detox? I just brewed a fresh pot of medicine. It’s warming on the stove.” The medicine. That extremely bitter, pitch-black liquid that made me vomit and suffer from diarrhea for days. “I’m not drinking it anymore.” There was a silence on the other end of the line for two seconds. Those two seconds felt twice as long as usual. “Maria, what did people tell you outside?” “Nothing. I just don’t want to drink it.” “We will talk when you get home,” her voice returned to its usual gentle tone. “Marcus saved some soup for you. Hurry back.” Marcus saved soup for me. What soup? He had never saved anything for me in his entire life. The world on his plate and the world on mine were separated by an entire galaxy. I wiped the tears from my face and paid the bill. Sixty dollars. Six empty plates stacked up. When I reached the front of our house, the living room lights were blazing. The curtains weren’t drawn. I could see Marcus playing video games on the couch, with half-eaten King Crab legs sitting on the coffee table. I pushed the door open, and the rich scent of crab meat filled the air. My mother brought out a bowl of tomato bisque from the kitchen, placing it at my usual spot with a smile. “You’re back? Drink this. It’s good for your body.” Next to the tomato bisque sat a bowl of plain green salad. My spot at the table always had salad and the plainest food. Marcus sat at the other end of the couch with his crab legs, not even looking up. “Mom, I had my allergens tested at my checkup today.” Her fork froze in mid-air for less than half a second. “Why would you test for that? Don’t I know your body better than anyone?” “The report says I’m not allergic to anything.” “Well, that’s because you’re cured now! My medicine worked. After drinking it for so many years, your body is finally balanced. You should be thanking me.” I looked into her eyes. There wasn’t a single shred of guilt. She actually believed her own lies. “I’m not taking the medicine anymore.” “What are you talking about? Did you run into some sketchy doctor outside?” “Those people just love to scare you to make money. Stay away from them. My recipe is a hundred times more effective than their treatment.” She walked back into the kitchen. The clay pot on the stove was still warm. When she lifted the lid, a plume of black steam rose, carrying that intensely bitter smell into the living room. My stomach knotted up in an instant. Twenty years of muscle memory was stronger than any truth. My mother walked out carrying the dark brew and placed it right in front of me. “Be a good girl, drink it, and go to bed early. I’ll make you something else tomorrow.”
“What is that smell on you?” The next morning, the moment I stepped out of the bathroom, my mother blocked my path in the hallway, leaning in to sniff me. My heart skipped a beat. “What smell?” “It smells fishy.” She stared at me, her eyes scanning me from head to toe like a security sensor. “Did you eat seafood last night?” Even though the scent of the seafood feast was 90% covered by my body wash, she had actually smelled it. “No, it must be—” “You’re lying.” Her tone didn’t rise; instead, it dropped a dangerous octave. “Maria, did you sneak out to eat seafood behind my back?” “Mom, my checkup yesterday proved that I’m not allergic—” “Not allergic?” She suddenly grabbed my wrist in a tight grip. “When you were five years old, you almost died in the ER! Did you forget?” “Your eyes were swollen shut, your entire body was covered in hives, and you had to wear an oxygen mask all night! And you’re telling me you’re not allergic?” I remembered that ER visit. But what I wanted to know now was—was that really because of seafood, or was it because of her medicine? “I’m perfectly fine now. Nothing happened.” “Just because you’re fine now doesn’t mean you’ll be fine later!” She let go of me and stormed into the kitchen. I heard the heavy lid of the clay pot slam open. She emerged with a bowl of the dark medicine, the black liquid sloshing dangerously close to the rim. “Drink it.” “I said no.” “You ate seafood last night. If you don’t drink this, the toxins won’t leave your body. Do you want to wait until you can’t breathe and have to be rushed to the ER again?” “Mom—” “Maria!” Her sharp cry made Marcus look up from his game in the living room. My mother stood before me, holding the bowl, her eyes welling with tears. Her lips trembled, and her jaw was tense. And then, she started crying. “Do you have any idea how terrified I was when you were hospitalized as a kid? I sat in that hospital hallway all night, I didn’t even realize I had lost my shoes.” “Now that you’re grown up, you think you don’t have to listen to me? Am I trying to hurt you? I am your mother!” Tears streamed down her face. Marcus got up from the couch, walked over to stand behind her, and glared at me. “Maria, what is wrong with you? Can’t you see Mom is crying? Is it really that hard to just drink a bowl of medicine?” “You don’t understand, Marcus.” “What is there to understand? All I know is that Mom has spent her life worrying about your health, and you think you can just say ‘I’m not drinking it’ and be done with it?” “Don’t you know how fragile your body is?” He turned to our mother, his voice softening. “Mom, stop crying. I’ll talk to her.” Then he looked back at me, his face filled with genuine confusion and disapproval. He couldn’t comprehend why a daughter, who had been fed medicine and cared for by her mother for twenty years, would suddenly reject that love. Because he didn’t know. He never had to know. The King Crab on his plate didn’t need an explanation, and the plain pasta on mine didn’t either. Everything in this house was allocated based on one single rule: “Maria is allergic.” “Maria, just drink it. Stop making a scene.” My mother pushed the bowl a step closer to me. The bitter stench hit my nose, and my stomach began to churn again. Twenty years of conditioned reflexes remained loyal. Even though my brain knew the truth, my body was still terrified. “Mom, I really—” “You ‘really’ what? ‘Really’ not allergic? Then explain to me, when you sneaked a bite of mango last year and your lips swelled up like a balloon, whose fault was that?” “Or two years ago, when you touched a piece of beef jerky and got rashes all over your hands, whose fault was that?” Last year. Two years ago. Every single rash, every single swelling—was it really an allergy, or was it the masterpiece of this medicine? I couldn’t tell anymore. She was too good at this. She had used twenty years of lived experiences to build an airtight cage around me. If I said “I’m not allergic,” she could bring up a hundred pieces of evidence to prove me wrong. Those “evidences” were real—I really had swollen up, vomited, and ended up bedridden. Except the culprit was never the food. It was the bowl of medicine in her hands. But I didn’t have solid, irrefutable proof yet. The preliminary analysis of the medicine residue was in my pocket, but the pharmacist hadn’t given me an official medical document. If I flipped the table now, she would have plenty of time to destroy everything hidden in her cabinet. I looked at the bowl, then reached out and took it. My mother’s tears instantly receded, and the corners of her mouth relaxed slightly. I brought the bowl to my lips. The moment the dark liquid touched my mouth, the bitter taste hit my tongue, and a wave of nausea surged from my stomach. I looked up at her. She was watching me drink, her face wearing the same gentle expression she had on any ordinary night. I slammed the bowl down. The dark medicine splashed onto the coffee table, seeping into the cracks and staining the wood dark. “I’m not drinking it.” She froze. Marcus froze. The living room fell into a dead silence for five seconds. The only sound in those five seconds was the slow drip of the dark liquid falling from the edge of the table to the hardwood floor. Drip. Drip. My mother stared at the dark puddle. The emotion flashing in her eyes wasn’t anger. It was panic. But she suppressed it quickly. She bent down, grabbed a rag, and began wiping the spill. Her voice was strangely light. “Fine. If you don’t want to drink it, don’t. We’ll talk about it tomorrow.” She finished wiping, stood up, and walked to the kitchen door. Then she paused and looked back at me. Her smile was still there, but her eyes had completely changed. “Maria, have you been under too much pressure lately? Your mental state seems a bit off.” “If you have something on your mind, you can talk to me. Don’t keep it bottled up. And don’t listen to random strangers outside, okay?” She turned and left. Marcus sat back on the couch, muttering under his breath, “Psycho.” I didn’t know if he was talking about me or the situation. I went back to my room, only to find that the lock on my door had been changed. It was one of those old-fashioned knob locks that could only be locked from the outside. I couldn’t lock it from the inside anymore. In an instant, I realized: she was keeping me locked in. My phone buzzed. It was a message from my mother on Snapchat. I opened it. Her voice message sounded as sweet as a lullaby. “Maria, I know you’ve been stressed lately. Maybe the checkup put too much pressure on you.” “I’ll take you to the hospital tomorrow to get you checked out. Dr. Coleman is an old friend of mine. He’s much more reliable than those doctors outside.” “Please stop doing these crazy things on your own, okay? Be a good girl.”
“Maria, your mom told me you threw a tantrum yesterday?” My dad’s face appeared on the FaceTime screen. The wind from the construction site blew dust onto his hard hat, which he wiped away with his sleeve. He frowned at me. My mother was sitting right next to me. She hadn’t just sat down by chance. The very second I dialed the call, she had walked out of the kitchen with a plate of fruit and naturally sat down beside me—so naturally that it felt rehearsed. “Dad, I had my allergens tested during my checkup.” “Your mom told me about that.” He cut me off, speaking rapidly as if he were trying to meet a construction deadline. “What do you mean, you’re not allergic to anything? Do you actually believe those cheap, mass-produced tests?” “When you were a kid, you almost choked to death in the ER. I had to drive all night from the project site just to sign your surgery consent form—was that fake?” “That wasn’t an allergy, Dad. It was—” “That’s enough,” he waved his hand dismissively. “Don’t I know what kind of person your mother is? She pinches pennies just to brew your medicine, watches your diet, and cooks separate meals for you. Stop being so dramatic.” My mother let out a soft sigh beside me, just loud enough for the phone’s microphone to pick up. “I don’t blame her, David. She’s twenty now; she has her own ideas.” “I’m just worried she’s met some bad people outside who are taking advantage of her.” She glanced at me. It wasn’t the look of a worried, loving mother. It was a warning: If you dare tell your father about the medicine, just see what happens. “Dad, can you come home for a bit?” “Are you kidding? The site is right in the middle of a major phase. How can I just leave? Your mother is right there with you anyway.” “I want to talk to you. Alone.” “What is there to talk about alone? Your mother is right there, just say it. What secrets are you keeping from your own family?” My mother took over the conversation, patting the back of my hand, and gave a tight, bitter smile to the camera. “David, don’t yell at her. She’s probably just stressed about her new job. I’ll take her to see a doctor and get her sorted out.” The call ended. In the afternoon, my Aunt Bella showed up. No one had warned me. When she appeared in the living room, I was in my room searching for independent medical testing laboratories. “Maria, come out and sit with us,” my mother’s voice called out from the hallway. I walked out. Bella was sitting on the couch peeling oranges, a pile of peels already stacked on her plate. She had clearly been here for a while. “Oh, Maria,” she pulled me down to sit beside her, patting my hand. “Your mom called me. She said you haven’t been very obedient lately.” “Bella, there’s something—” “Let me finish first. Do you have any idea how hard your mother has worked all these years?” “During all those years of your allergies, she got up in the middle of the night to brew medicine, cooked special meals, and took you to see doctors. Do you think that didn’t take an emotional toll on her?” Every single word she said was a carbon copy of my mother’s usual guilt trips, copy-pasted into a relative’s mouth. “If you really aren’t allergic anymore, isn’t that great? It means your mom’s medicine worked! Why are you still picking fights with her?” “I’m not picking fights—” “Then why did you make your mother cry? When she called me this morning, her voice was completely hoarse.” I looked at my mother. She was sitting nearby peeling an apple, her face a perfect picture of quiet hurt and long-suffering endurance. “Maria,” Bella lowered her voice, leaning in closer. “Your mom asked me to check if you’ve been watching some sketchy influencers online who are tricking you into doing these tests just to sell you products. There are so many of those scammers nowadays.” I opened my mouth, then closed it. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to speak. It was that speaking was completely useless. This web was too vast—she had spent twenty years weaving an airtight narrative, and all our relatives were both the audience and the messengers of her story. If I rushed in waving a lab report and screaming “She’s lying,” I would only be treated as a lunatic. “I understand, Bella.” “Good girl. Go apologize to your mom, okay? We’re family, after all.” After she left, I opened my phone and searched for my mother’s YouTube channel. Bella had mentioned her YouTube account before, but I hadn’t paid attention to it at the time. I found it. Her profile picture was a silhouette of her in the kitchen, her apron neatly tied. The channel name: Allergy Mom’s Journey. Subscribers: 114,000. I clicked on it. The video list was endless. The earliest video was uploaded three years ago, titled: “When your child is allergic to everything, a mother has to find a way.” I scrolled down, video by video. “Allergy-Friendly Lunchbox Ep. 52 | My Eldest Daughter’s Special Meal” “Brother Eats Lobster vs. Sister Eats Plain Potatoes | A Mother’s Heart Breaks” “Brewing the Healing Soup for 3 Hours, Hoping My Daughter Cures Her Allergies Soon” Every video had tens of thousands, sometimes hundreds of thousands of views. The comment section was filled with pure adoration. “You are the most incredible mother on the internet.” “Even though the daughter can’t eat normal food, she is so blessed to have a mother like you.” “This made me cry. A mother’s love is truly selfless.” I counted. Two hundred and forty-seven videos. In every single one, she stood before the stove, gently stirring a pot of soup, her face carrying that perfect touch of melancholic maternal worry. Worrying about her daughter’s fragile health, aching because her daughter couldn’t enjoy good food. Over a hundred thousand people watched her performance of maternal devotion. Not a single soul knew what was actually hidden at the bottom of that pot. I shut off my phone. The room was completely silent. The changed lock on my door couldn’t be locked from the inside; the slightest breeze would push it open a crack. My phone buzzed. My mother had just posted a message in our family Snapchat group. “Please don’t listen to Maria’s wild stories, everyone. The poor child is just under a lot of pressure at work, and she’s getting a bit paranoid.” “I’m taking her to see a doctor to get her back on track. She’ll be fine in a couple of days.” An instant flood of replies expressing “sympathy for Susan” filled the chat. My Uncle John replied: “Maria has always been a good kid. She’s probably just exhausted. Don’t worry too much, Susan.” My mother replied: “I can’t help but worry. She’s my daughter, after all. As a mother, I’d do absolutely anything for her.” I stared at that sentence: ‘I’d do absolutely anything for her.’ Including poisoning me for fifteen years. I closed the app and stuffed the phone under my pillow. There was a water stain on my ceiling shaped like a bowl. I stared at it for a long, long time. From outside, my mother’s laughter drifted in—she was talking to Marcus in the living room. Marcus mumbled in response, followed by the clatter of a spatula hitting the pan. “Marcus, you’re having the prime rib with lobster tail tonight. I added a soft-boiled egg for you.” “Maria’s pasta is warming in the pot. Call her out in a bit.” Separated by a single wall. He ate lobster; I ate plain pasta. Her YouTube channel was currently uploading its 248th episode of Allergy Mom’s Journey. And I couldn’t even lock my own bedroom door.
“Have you had a history of taking highly toxic or severe cold herbal medications long-term?” The OBGYN specialist moved the ultrasound transducer away from my abdomen. Her voice was professional and neutral, but the way she framed the question made my heart sink. “Yes… for about fifteen years.” She took off her gloves, washed her hands thoroughly at the sink, and finally sat back down at her desk. She opened the computer, brought up my scans, and remained silent for about ten seconds. “Your endometrial lining is only 0.3 centimeters. The normal range is 0.8 to 1.4.” “Your ovarian reserve has severely depleted. Your AMH level is 0.4. For a healthy woman your age, it should be between 2 and 6.” She turned the monitor toward me, pointing at the black-and-white images labeled with cold, clinical numbers. It felt like a final judgment. “Your ovarian function is currently close to that of a perimenopausal woman. The probability of natural conception is extremely low.” ‘Perimenopause.’ A word that belonged to women over forty-five was now stamped onto the medical report of a twenty-year-old girl. “Can it be cured?” “We can try hormonal therapy and lifestyle adjustments, but the chance of recovering to normal levels—” She paused. “It’s very slim.” I took the medical report. The piece of paper felt incredibly light, yet too heavy to hold the weight of those words. “Do you have any other questions?” “No. Thank you.” When I walked out of the clinic, the sun was blindingly bright. I sat on the steps outside the clinic, laying three documents out on my lap—the allergen report, the pharmacist’s chemical analysis of the medicine, and the gynecological report. Three pieces of paper. Twenty years of my life. My phone rang. It was a voice note from my mother on Snapchat. “Maria, Bella and John’s family are coming over for dinner tonight. Come home early to help me clean up. Oh, and I made some baked yams for you. Just for you.” The voice note ended with a light, cheerful chuckle, as if she were talking about the most mundane household chore. When I arrived home, the living room was already packed. Bella was cracking sunflower seeds, John was scrolling through his phone, and Aunt Chloe was chatting happily with Marcus. The dining table was loaded with food. At my designated spot, there was still only a bowl of bland, plain pasta. “You’re back!” My mother popped her head out of the kitchen with a bright smile. “Maria, wash your hands quickly. We were just waiting for you.” Chloe looked at the table and asked casually, “Why isn’t Maria eating the main dishes with us?” “Oh, don’t even ask,” my mother’s face instantly shifted into that deeply practiced expression of sorrowful regret. “Maria has a fragile, highly allergic constitution. She can’t touch anything.” “Seafood sends her into shock, beef gives her terrible rashes, and she can’t even stand the smell of mangoes.” “Oh, poor thing.” “I know, right?” She sat down, uttering her favorite line as naturally as breathing. “She’s just had a hard life. She was born with bad luck.” ‘Born with bad luck.’ She had repeated that line to me for twenty years. Marcus kept his head down, stuffing his mouth with shrimp, saying nothing. John looked up at me. “Maria, you should go get a proper medical test. Allergy tests are extremely accurate these days.” I opened my mouth to speak. “We did,” my mother chimed in quickly, waving her hand with a dismissive chuckle. “Those laboratory machines are highly unreliable. I understand her body better than anyone. I’ve watched her grow up, after all.” She stood up, went into the kitchen, and brought out a bowl of the jet-black liquid, placing it right in front of me. Everyone at the table saw it. “Here, Maria. You ate some sketchy food outside yesterday. Drink this to flush out the toxins.” The dark liquid glistened oily under the dining room light, its bitter vapor rising slowly. A severe emetic laxative. Highly toxic. Long-term use causing permanent infertility. “Yes, Maria, you have to be careful with your fragile health,” Bella chimed in from the side. “Susan really goes above and beyond for you,” Chloe added. I picked up the bowl, my palms slick with cold sweat. Everyone’s eyes were locked onto me. I set the bowl back down. “Mom, I’m not drinking it tonight.” “What’s wrong?” Her smile remained, but the muscles around her eyes tightened. “Are you throwing a fit in front of our guests?” “No, I’m not throwing a fit. I just—” “Maria,” she lowered her voice, leaning in so close her lips almost brushed my ear. “If you embarrass me in front of everyone tonight, you’d better think carefully about how you’re going to survive under my roof from now on.” There was no warmth left in that voice. Only cold, absolute control. “Just drink it, Maria,” Bella tried to play peacemaker. “Your mother went through so much trouble to brew this for you. Don’t let it go to waste.” I picked up the bowl again, brought it to my lips, but didn’t drink. I placed the bowl back on the table, stood up, and said, “Excuse me, I need to use the restroom.” As I walked away from the dining table, I could feel every single gaze pinning me from behind. My mother’s voice drifted after me—”It’s fine, it’s fine. She’s just been under a lot of stress lately. I’ll talk to her in a bit.” Inside the bathroom, I locked the door and leaned my back against the cold tile wall. My palms still carried the residual warmth of that poisoned bowl. I was running out of time. She was accelerating everything—bringing the relatives over was to put pressure on me. Bringing the medicine to the dining table in front of everyone was her way of asserting dominance. If I kept dragging this out, she could destroy all the evidence in her cabinet at any moment, or even switch the medicine. I pulled out my phone. A thought struck me—with my mother busy hosting guests, her phone must be charging in her bedroom. I slipped out of the bathroom and quietly entered her bedroom. Her phone was lying on the nightstand, its screen glowing—she had forgotten to lock it. Her pinned chats were right at the top. The first was the family Snapchat group. The second—labeled: Mr. Henderson (Herbs). I tapped it open. The chat history stretched back from yesterday to three years ago. At the beginning of every month, she would send the same message: “The usual. Two batches.” The reply was always just a price and an address confirmation. I scrolled up, finding a conversation from a week ago. Her message: “Henderson, make this month’s batch a bit stronger. She didn’t vomit much last time. I think her body is building a tolerance.” His reply: “Understood, I’ll adjust the dosage. But you can’t keep increasing the strength of this stuff. It’s going to cause serious damage if she takes too much.” Her reply, sent five seconds later: “It’s fine. Her body can take it.” I read every single word. Then, I took screenshots and sent them to my email. I took a second screenshot, a third, a fourth, until my fingers went numb. Just as I sent the last one, my mother’s voice called out from the living room, sounding sweet and cheerful. “Maria? Where did you run off to? Come on out and have some yams before they get cold.”
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