My mom is a top lawyer. She defended a murderer, turning a death sentence into an acquittal. She didn’t know the victim was her own daughter. Mom never liked me. She called me a vixen, saying I’d cry to gain men’s sympathy. On my 18th birthday, I went out waiting for the surprise mom mentioned. What I got was a killer. Later, that star lawyer went insane. On my 18th birthday, a message lured me to a desolate mountain. It was from mom. “5 PM, North Forest Mountain. A surprise awaits you.” I was overjoyed, dressing up carefully before heading out. Mom had never liked me and rarely came to see me. When I visited friends’ houses, she’d scold me for being improper, always trying to seduce people. If I wore a pretty dress, she’d say my mind wasn’t right, that I wasn’t focused on studying. When a male classmate gave me a birthday gift, she accused me of being calculating, of harming others. This was the first time mom was giving me a gift. I twirled around, feeling as light as if I had wings. I waited and waited on the mountain, until the last bus had gone. She never came. Was mom tricking me? Maybe something held her up. Footsteps sounded behind me. I turned around, excited. What I got was a demon. I ran desperately in the opposite direction, trying to reach the road for help. Night had fallen. There was no moon, no lights. If only I could move a little quieter, a little quicker, I could surely escape. Get to the road, call the police, seek help. But what about mom? What if she came and ran into him? My phone rang – it was the ringtone I’d set for mom. Damn, I’d been discovered. I silenced the ring and ran with all my might. Mom, don’t come. It’s dangerous here. He pinned me to the ground, a knife tracing inch by inch across my skin. Mud clung to my body, blood splattered onto the soil. The ringtone seemed to start again, then stopped after a while, the screen light fading with it. I died on my 18th birthday. Covered in mud, full of anticipation. My soul floated in the night sky. The pain of being tortured seemed to linger. I felt pulled by some force. Slowly flying towards home.
Mom didn’t like dad. She had a first love. Dad was a somewhat famous painter who fell for mom at first sight. He pursued her relentlessly, forcibly breaking up mom and her first love. Everyone approved of dad, so mom reluctantly married him. After marriage, mom was busy finding cases and handling them. She spent little time at home and often gave dad the cold shoulder. Artists are more sensitive. Dad couldn’t take mom’s neglect. Running away, attempting suicide, even jumping off buildings – he tried it all. At first, mom would rush home anxiously. But cry wolf too many times, and mom stopped believing. Until dad broke down and leapt from a high-rise. Mom’s comment: “Artists, their minds aren’t right.” I was a posthumous child. Mom’s physique was different from most. By the time she discovered me, it was too late for an abortion, so she had to keep me. During that time, because of me, she missed out on many potential cases. She said I was born to collect a debt.
In kindergarten, a boy pulled my pigtails. I cried loudly, inconsolable. Research shows children feel secure hearing their mother’s voice. The teacher called mom. I put my ear close to the receiver. “Crying over such a small pain, useless.” After that, no matter how much it hurt, I held back my tears. I was always well-behaved. Never crying or making a fuss, the most obedient child in class. Best at games, top of the class in studies. The teacher said she’d praise me at the parent-teacher meeting. She called mom: “Mrs. Evans, next Monday is the parent-teacher meeting. Please come.” I was secretly delighted. If mom came, she’d know how great I was. She’d pat my head and even brush my hair. That day at lunch, I hid away a reward candy. This candy was so popular, everyone would eat it right away when given one. The sweet taste would linger in your mouth all day. I wanted to share it with mom. I stared at the shiny wrapper, resisting the urge to unwrap and eat it. I waited through class after class, the candy almost melting in my palm. I had to open my hand, praying mom would come soon. Other kids’ parents all arrived. My seat remained empty. As the meeting was ending, mom walked into the classroom. I stretched out my left hand holding the candy, walking towards mom. “Teacher, this child is sensitive and stubborn. Sorry for the trouble.” I stopped in my tracks, lowering my hand. “Teacher, Lily stole something.” Someone spoke up, pointing at me: “She stole the candy handed out at lunch.” Emily grabbed my left hand, forcing it open. One finger, two fingers, revealing a candy with colorful wrapping. She slapped me: “How did I teach you? Daring to steal.” I wanted to explain that I had saved this candy. Mom’s words made me shut up: “You disappoint me so much.” “Speechless now? No wonder you’re his child, only knowing how to steal and grab.” The teacher tried to explain, saying it’s normal for kids to like sweets. But it was no use. In mom’s heart, I was a child who liked to steal.
To salvage my image, I worked hard, hoping to leave a good impression on mom. Award certificates covered wall after wall, trophies overflowing the cabinet. It didn’t earn a single word of praise, only admonishment: “Even if you don’t do well in exams, don’t forge results or cheat.” I had a natural talent for painting, effortlessly winning city-level awards. I showed my winning piece to Sarah. The painting depicted a mother and daughter. Under the light, the mother gently brushed her daughter’s hair. The warm yellow glow made the scene especially beautiful. I had always longed for mom to brush my hair. Sarah glanced at it, casually putting the painting in a drawer. “Focus on studying. Don’t mess with this nonsense.” “Drawing these things all day, you’ll go crazy sooner or later.” Then she picked up my report card: “Grades have dropped. Can’t find anyone to copy from anymore?” I lowered my head, quietly listening to Sarah’s scolding. Mom didn’t like me painting, so I never showed her my artwork again. Nor did I mention learning to paint. Mom always came to parent-teacher meetings. Some parents, hearing I was a single-parent child with such good grades, grew jealous and were unkind to me. Kids followed suit, mocking me: “Lily is a child without a dad.” They made up a rhyme, surrounding me, singing in shrill voices: “Lily, no daddy, gets bullied, cries to mommy, cry cry cry, what a baby.” I didn’t know how to refute, so I resorted to force to shut them up. I straddled them, punching again and again. They cried, saying they’d never do it again. I believed them and stopped. They flipped me over. A pencil pierced my left hand. The red that flowed stung my eyes. I was sent to the hospital. The teacher quickly contacted parents. Mom arrived, saw my bandaged left hand, and sneered: “Such a light injury, probably healed already. Learning from that useless father of yours.” Some parents saw their kids disheveled, angrily coming to school. Wanting an explanation. The teacher tried to mediate, saying both sides were at fault. The parents realized mom was the recently famous star lawyer and left reluctantly, not wanting to offend her. I watched their retreating figures, incredibly envious. They had adults to back them up. I didn’t.
A black Maybach entered Happy Community. Sarah got out. She had just called me twice – I hung up on one, the other went unanswered. This child, what game is she playing now? She recalled the text she sent earlier. Surely she wouldn’t just stay stupidly on the mountain. It was just a prank. She’s not that dumb. My soul was drawn here by some force. “Mom.” I saw Sarah and flew towards her. But passed right through her back. I realized I was dead. I could never hug mom again. Mom came here to celebrate my birthday? But I’m not home, she won’t see me. Will she be disappointed? I floated outside, a gust of wind could blow me away. I followed mom all the way. In the stairwell, a little girl wearing a birthday hat bounced along. She saw Sarah and jumped to her side. She opened her left palm, revealing a candy. The wrapper gleamed under the light. “Auntie, it’s my birthday today. Have a candy.” Sarah smiled and took the candy, patting her head: “Happy birthday, little one.” Mom had never said happy birthday to me, never patted my head, let alone called me “little one.” “Auntie, look, this is the new dress mom bought me. Isn’t it pretty?” The little girl lifted her skirt, twirling around. Sarah looked carefully and exclaimed: “Like a little fairy!” Mom had never complimented me. Her most frequent words were: “Lily, I’m so disappointed in you.” The little girl smiled shyly: “Auntie, being your daughter must be so happy.” Sarah was stunned. She had a daughter. Her daughter always seemed timid around her, smiling ingratiatingly. Was her daughter happy? I wasn’t happy. The companionship and simple praise I wanted, she never gave me. Sarah continued upstairs, passing a middle-aged woman. She was on the phone complaining: “Nini hasn’t come back to visit in so long. What child doesn’t miss home?” “Nini’s birthday is in a few days. We must prepare well, cook a big feast, let Nini eat her fill.” Today was my birthday too. But I was already dead. Mom could no longer celebrate for me. I could never have mom pat my head or praise me again. I floated dejectedly behind mom. I kept waiting for her to turn around, to look at me once. I chased after light like a shadow in a daydream. Pursuing an endless and hopeless bewilderment. Birthday. Come to think of it, Lily’s birthday was coming up soon. Sarah thought. She came this time to emphasize to Lily that the college entrance exam was approaching. Focus on studying, draw less, and don’t think about boyfriends and girlfriends. She didn’t care about other times, but the exam was important. Can’t let distractions interfere. Finally, she arrived. She knocked, but no one answered. Sarah sent a message, no reply. Called, but no one picked up. Strange. Usually Lily replied to messages instantly. Did something happen? Sarah thought about contacting the property management. The phone rang. It was her son William. “Mom, come back quickly. I’m scared.” “He killed someone.” It was her stepdaughter Emily. Sarah was confused. A voice came through the phone: “Mom, come back first. It’s hard to explain over the phone.”
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