Under my mother’s strict discipline, I became the valedictorian and was accepted into Stanford University. On the day the results came out, everyone praised my mom for her successful parenting, saying she would enjoy a blissful retirement. The local news came to interview her, and she shared her parenting methods without a hint of humility. “Spare the rod, spoil the child, and that’s how you raise a successful one.” The whole city celebrated my achievement. But I left a note behind, and stood on the edge of the rooftop. “I’ve given you Stanford. In my next life, please let me go.” My mom, Vivian Whitmore, holds a PhD, and my dad, Gregory Whitmore, has a master’s degree. I could say “mom” and “dad” by seven months old, and by eight months, I could walk. Everyone praised me for being naturally gifted, saying that with the right upbringing, I was surely Ivy League material. My mom thought so too. She became obsessed with the idea, even going as far as renaming me Serena Whitmore, as if that would seal my future at Stanford. At three years old, despite barely being able to write, I would attend preschool during the day, and then at night, I was forced to memorize poetry until 10 p.m. Meanwhile, kids my age were running wild in the yard, playing without a care in the world. I was jealous, always peering longingly through the window at them. When my mom noticed, she had the curtains sealed shut, cutting me off completely from the outside world. She struck my palms with a rod, her face full of disdain. “Those kids are already falling behind. They’ll never amount to anything, and neither will you if you waste time like them.” Relatives pressured my mom to have a second child, saying her good genes shouldn’t go to waste. But she was resolute. “All my time and energy are for Serena. She’s destined for Stanford, and I can’t afford to be distracted.” Then, turning to me, she added, “I’ve sacrificed so much for you, betting everything on your future. You have to get in.” When I entered Willow Creek Elementary, my mom became even more extreme. Every night, I worked on extra assignments until midnight, never getting enough sleep. I would often doze off while solving problems, and she would stand behind me, whipping me with that thin rod. “Sleep, sleep, sleep. That’s all you do. You aren’t allowed to sleep until you’ve finished all these exercises.” With tears streaming down my face, I dared not defy her. As time went on, the bags under my eyes grew bigger than my eyes themselves. Relatives voiced their concerns, saying my mom was suffocating me and would drive me to an early grave. Infuriated, she accused them of being jealous of her genius daughter. They complained to my dad, Gregory, who was working out of town, but he could only tell them to stay out of it. Soon, the relatives stopped coming altogether, saying our family was full of lunatics. My mom, however, was satisfied with this outcome. She would stand over me, rod in hand, watching me work through endless stacks of practice tests. “Now that no one will bother you, let’s see how you try to slack off.” The pile of worksheets next to my desk grew taller than me, and I felt so, so tired. After I graduated from elementary school, I got into Redwood Middle School, the best in the city. In a new environment where no one knew me, I finally made my first friend. Her name was Delilah Brooks, and she was my seatmate. Delilah was outgoing and friendly. On our first day, she started chatting with me and even shared some of her favorite snacks. I was over the moon and saved the snacks in my backpack, too excited to eat them. After school, I rushed home to give the snacks to my mom and told her about my first friend. Without a word, she threw the snacks into the trash and berated me for being lazy and foolish. I hung my head, too scared to speak. Then she asked about Delilah’s grades. I answered truthfully, “She’s at the bottom of the class.” My mom’s face darkened, but she didn’t say anything. The next day at school, Delilah suddenly refused to speak to me, and she asked the teacher to change seats. Confused, I asked her why. Delilah shoved me and yelled, “Your mom called my house and said that losers like me aren’t worthy of being your friend—that I’d only drag you down!” The whole class started whispering. “Just because she has good grades, she thinks she’s better than everyone.” “Her mom’s crazy. Since when do bad grades mean you owe someone food?” I walked away in tears, too ashamed to say anything. When I got back to my seat, I noticed my desk and chair were gone. My homeroom teacher, Mr. Gideon Brooks, awkwardly explained, “Your mom insisted that you sit alone so no one will distract you.” I nodded, looking down. “I understand.” From that day on, no one dared to talk to me, terrified that even a single word would lead to a warning from my mom. I ate alone, sat alone, and walked home alone. And as always, I stayed up late doing practice tests until deep into the night. Every time I took a test, I ranked first in the grade. My mom beamed with pride, telling everyone that Serena Whitmore was a natural-born Stanford candidate. Was it talent? I touched the thick calluses on my hands, left by the countless practice tests I had done. When it came time for high school entrance exams, I ranked first in the city and broke all previous score records, earning a $5,000 scholarship from the city of Boston. My mom happily collected the money. Her colleagues called for advice on how to raise such a brilliant child. She proudly shared her methods, one call at a time. “I think it’s just talent. After all, both her father and I are Ivy League graduates. How could our kid turn out anything less?” “But if you don’t have talent, then you have to work hard. My Serena does at least ten practice tests every single day.” “And if you don’t have talent and you don’t work hard, well, that’s when the rod comes in. You can’t get a good kid without some discipline.” She even posted a video on social media. The caption: “Discipline raises geniuses.” The video showed her hitting me with a rod across my back when I got a question wrong. Her colleagues shared the post widely, and it unexpectedly made it to the front page of the Boston Post. The question on everyone’s mind: Does strict discipline raise obedient children, or rebels? My mom replied confidently in the comments: “Of course, it raises obedient children. Serena has never disobeyed me, not even once.” But soon, my actions would completely disprove her.
At Evergreen Prep Academy, the top high school in the state, it was filled with kids who were not only talented but also worked incredibly hard. I began to struggle, and on my first monthly exam, I completely bombed, falling to 30th in the grade. My mom refused to believe it and stormed into the school. She accused the teachers of messing up my test, demanding a reevaluation. “There’s no way my Serena could score this badly! She’s always been number one! You teachers are taking bribes to suppress her grades!” The teachers were upset, but what could they do? I was humiliated beyond words. I tugged at my mom’s sleeve, trying to get her to leave. But she slapped me across the face, her expression twisted in anger. “Serena Whitmore, you better pray the test was graded wrong, or you’ll regret it!” I backed into the corner, covering my face, while the teachers tried to calm her down, explaining that no matter the result, hitting me wasn’t the answer. But she wouldn’t listen, insisting on a regrade. Unable to stop her, the teachers had to call the principal. The principal had my test paper regraded right in front of her. The score was exactly the same. My mom’s face grew dark. She didn’t say a word, just yanked me out of school without even asking for permission. At home, locked in my room, I received the worst beating of my life. “Serena, is this how you repay me? You think just because I’m not there, you can slack off? With grades like these, how do you expect to get into Stanford?” I curled up in the corner, my eyes squeezed shut in pain. The wounds were on my back, so when I returned to school, no one could see them. At school, I was the talk of the town. Everyone whispered about how my mom had made a scene. But I was numb. This wasn’t the first time, after all. Teachers approached me, discreetly offering help. I shook my head and forced a smile. It’s no use. No one can help me… For the first time, I skipped class and wandered to the pond behind the school. The green lily pads were clustered thickly together, with brilliant blooms of lotus flowers rising up. I stared at them, a dangerous thought flashing through my mind. If I jumped in, no one would find me. It would be a complete, final death. Not even my body would be left for my mom. I bit my lip and slowly moved toward the railing. “Woof… woof…” Just as I swung one leg over the edge, a faint bark came from the bushes. I froze, slowly bringing my leg back. Maybe I should take one last look. Just one more. I’d never had a childhood—only study sessions that lasted late into the night. When I was seven, I gathered the courage to ask my mom if I could get a cat or a dog. She refused, stone-hearted. In her eyes, any distraction was a waste of time. It wasn’t that I loved animals; I just wanted to feel the presence of something living. Something to remind me that I was alive. I followed the sound and discovered a boy crouched in the bushes, feeding a stray puppy bits of jerky. I recognized him. Asher Hawthorne. He had scored second on the recent exam. His photo was on the school’s honor roll. When he noticed me, he handed me a piece of jerky with a gentle smile. “Want to feed it?” I bit my lip and silently took the jerky, offering it to the puppy. The puppy ate eagerly, occasionally licking my fingers. The sensation was so unfamiliar, almost electric. I was startled, but it made me smile for the first time in forever. After the jerky ran out, I still wasn’t ready to leave. “You’ve had enough for today,” Asher said softly, stroking the puppy’s fur. “Don’t be greedy.” His voice was gentle and calm, so much so that I felt compelled to ask quietly, “Do good students skip class too?” Asher chuckled and glanced at me. “Didn’t you skip class?” I pressed my lips together and looked down. That’s when I noticed the faint white scars running along the inside of his wrist. “You…” No wonder he wore long sleeves in the middle of summer. Startled, I looked up at him. He had caught my gaze and quickly tugged his sleeve back down, covering the scars. He resumed petting the puppy, his eyes cast downward. “Her name is Peanut. Cute, huh?” “She’s the last of her litter. Her mom was killed by some kids, so I come here every day to feed her.” As he spoke, I quietly sat down beside him. No one had ever shared anything personal with me before, so I listened intently. But suddenly, Asher fell silent. I glanced over at him, confused. “I saw you earlier,” he said quietly, “when you were thinking of ending it. I made Peanut bark on purpose. I was betting that you wouldn’t go through with it.” “I won that bet. You came down.” He looked at me, his pale face cracking a sad smile. “Because we’re the same.” I froze, utterly stunned. Maybe it was because I had finally met someone who understood me, but we bonded deeply from that moment on. Asher told me about his family and his genius twin brother. His brother had won a national science competition, skipped two grades in middle school, and had already been accepted into an Ivy League school. Asher had spent his life constantly being compared to his brother. Without the same high IQ, he had to work a hundred times harder, but still couldn’t measure up. I looked at him seriously. “But you’re already amazing.” Asher gave a bitter smile. “If only they thought the same thing.” By “they,” he meant his parents. I was at a loss for words, feeling like I had no right to comfort him. But Asher didn’t seem to mind. He scooped Peanut into her small bed and stood up. Before leaving, he invited me back. “Want to come feed her again tomorrow?” I nodded eagerly, feeling a strange sense of excitement. It was like we had found a secret world of our own. On the way back to class, my steps felt lighter, and even the air tasted sweeter. But the moment I stepped into the classroom, my smile faded completely. My mom was standing outside the classroom door, her icy gaze fixed on me. She stormed toward me, delivering a hard kick to my knee. I collapsed to the ground, forced to kneel before her. Looking down at me with a fierce glare, she slapped me across the face in front of the entire class.
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