Mom was the neighborhood’s “Moral Role Model.” Her favorite hobby was destroying her own family for public praise. When I was hungry and sneaked a piece of food from the ancestral offering table, she forced me to drink a bowl of dish soap water right in front of everyone — to “cleanse my stomach.” When the neighbor lost five hundred dollars, Mom didn’t ask a single question. She grabbed a thick upholstery needle and drove it through all ten of my fingers. Later, the police caught the real thief. It was the neighbor’s own son. But Mom just kept smiling at the neighbor: “Don’t worry about it. This girl is tough. A beating builds character — keeps her from getting any wrong ideas in the future.” The neighbor, embarrassed, said she’d accused the wrong person. Mom waved it off like it was nothing: “A girl like Nicole is born needing discipline. Consider it an early lesson.” What she didn’t know was that every time she wronged me, I crossed out one day in my diary. Just now, I used up the last page. Right in front of her, standing beneath the plaque of our “Model Family,” I drank that bottle of paraquat. Mom — is destroying myself for your reputation loud enough? — **1** The day I turned eighteen. Mom was at the community center, giving a talk on “Model Family” values. Dad crept over like he was hiding something, and pulled a squashed little box from inside his jacket. It was a cake. Barely bigger than his palm. The frosting had smeared all over the cardboard. He rubbed his hands together, his face full of nervous hope: “Nikki, quick, eat it before your mom sees.” My throat tightened. Three years. Ever since Mom became the neighborhood’s “Moral Role Model,” I hadn’t had a birthday. She said celebrating was wasteful and shameful — that money should go to children in need. I picked up a fork. My hand was shaking a little. I was just lifting it to my mouth when the door burst open with a bang. Mom stood in the doorway, cradling a gold-embossed “Outstanding Family” plaque in both arms. Her eyes locked onto that little cake like a pair of nails. Dad flinched so hard he nearly fell off the couch. “Li… Lisa, you’re back.” Mom ignored him and strode over. I instinctively hunched over the cake. “Mom, I just want one bite…” Mom let out a cold laugh. “Greg, is this what you’ve been doing behind my back? Encouraging this kind of self-indulgent nonsense?” She snatched the cake. Her fingers drove straight into the frosting, destroying the little red “18” on top. “Mrs. Wang next door lives alone. Her gout has been flaring up. She could use some cheering up.” She pulled out her phone, opened the camera, and her face instantly shifted into a warm, glowing smile. “Hey everyone, today is my daughter’s birthday — but as a family, we decided this cake should go to someone who really needs it.” The camera turned toward me. I looked down, tears burning in my eyes. “Nikki, you agree with Mom, right? Come on, give the camera a smile.” She pinched my arm. Hard. It stung. I forced out a smile that looked worse than crying. “Yeah… give it to Mrs. Wang.” Mom nodded, satisfied. She picked up the ruined cake and headed for the door. Before she left, she turned and muttered: “Greedy girl. Always thinking about food.” The door clicked shut. Dad sank into the corner of the couch, lit a cigarette, and couldn’t look at me. — That evening, the family held their traditional dinner ritual. The table was laid out with a big bowl of braised pork, glistening with oil. I hadn’t eaten all day. My stomach felt like it was on fire. While Mom slipped away to the bathroom, I quietly pinched off a piece and shoved it in my mouth. Before I could even chew, someone grabbed me by the hair from behind. “Nicole! You little thief!” Mom had appeared out of nowhere. A few relatives who’d dropped by were all staring. “Stealing from the offering table? That food is sacred! How dare you!” She dragged me to the center of the living room. The relatives made weak, half-hearted attempts to intervene: “The poor kid is hungry, one piece can’t hurt…” “Absolutely not!” Mom’s voice was razor-sharp, the veins in her neck bulging. “It starts with one stolen bite and ends with a life of crime! You let this go today, and tomorrow she’ll be robbing people blind!” She charged into the kitchen. When she came back, she was carrying a large bowl of water. Thick white foam floated on top. The sharp, chemical smell of lemon dish soap hit me in the face. Dish soap water. “Drink it.” She shoved the bowl against my lips. “Flush out that greedy gut of yours. Let this be a lesson.” I looked desperately at Dad. He moved his lips: “Lisa, this could really hurt her…” “Shut up! Soft fathers raise ruined children!” One look from Mom and he went quiet. I was force-fed the whole thing. A burning, slick liquid poured down my throat. Less than thirty seconds later, my stomach turned inside out. I dropped to my knees and vomited violently. That piece of braised pork came back up with bile and stomach fluid, all over the floor. Some relatives covered their noses. Some turned away. Mom stood over me, looking down like a judge handing down a verdict. “Remember this. That is what greed gets you.” — **2** Late that night. I was curled up in bed, my stomach still cramping. I reached under my pillow and pulled out my diary. I turned to a fresh page and drew a bright red X. *”My birthday cake went to feed Mom’s ego. -1 day.”* This diary had three hundred pages. I had made myself a promise. When the last page was gone, I would give this life back to her. That bowl of dish soap water left me burning with fever for two days. Mom didn’t take me to the doctor. She said: “A fever means your body is detoxing. It’s karma for what you stole.” I lay in bed, and the only comfort I had was the drawing board under it. I loved art. It was the only escape I had in that suffocating house. I secretly entered the city’s “Future Stars” art competition. To keep Mom from finding out, I practiced every night deep under my covers, using the dim glow of my phone as a light. My eyes went red. My wrist ached. I never let myself stop. Because I knew — this was my only way out. Win a prize, and I’d have a shot at early admission to the arts high school affiliated with the academy. Half a month later, the news came. First place. When the certificate arrived at school, my hands were shaking. The professor from the arts academy had written in his review: “Exceptional raw talent. Destined for greatness.” Walking home that afternoon, I held that certificate to my chest, and something warm sparked inside me. Maybe Mom would be proud? This was a city-level award. Wouldn’t that look good for her? I was naive enough to believe that as long as it was an achievement, she’d be happy. — When I got home, Mom was in the living room polishing her wall of commendations. “Mom, I won an award.” I worked up my courage and held out the certificate. Mom stopped, took it. Glanced at it. Didn’t smile. Her expression was like she was looking at a scrap of paper. “Art?” The word came out of her mouth like a piece of ice. “Who told you to do art?” My heart dropped. “Mom, the professor said I have talent, I could apply to the arts academy…” “Smack!” The certificate hit the floor. “Talent? You call wasting your time talent?” Mom’s voice went sharp. “I already have your future planned out. You’re going to study education, become a teacher — respectable, stable! What does art get you? Busking on a street corner?” She stormed into my room. Tore through it like she’d lost her mind. The drawing board under my bed, the paints, the thick stack of artwork I’d built up — she dragged it all out. “Greg! Bring me the fire pit!” Dad came running in from the balcony, took one look, and froze. “Lisa, her drawings are actually really good…” “Good? What good? This is all your fault for enabling her! How much did all this junk cost?” Mom dumped the whole stack of drawings into the fire pit. The lighter clicked. Flames shot up. That was my work. Countless sleepless nights poured into every page. “No!” I screamed and lunged forward, reaching into the fire. “You dare fight me!” Mom kicked me hard in the shoulder. I fell against the edge of the fire pit, and my hand pressed down on the scorching hot rim. A sizzling sound. The smell of burning skin. The pain was blinding. But I couldn’t think about that. All I could see was my winning piece — *Bird in a Cage* — curling in the flames, blackening, turning to ash. Mom stood on the other side of the fire, her face lit up red. “Nicole, let me make this clear. This is a model family.” “I will not allow a disgrace like you under this roof.” “This is a stain on this family. It has to burn.” Dad stood to the side, head down, not saying a word. That night, I stared at the blisters rising on my hand. I didn’t cry. With my left hand, I opened my diary and crossed out seven days. *”My dream burned up. Mom called it a ‘family disgrace.’ -7 days.”* I had only meant to cross off one. But today, I felt like my life wasn’t worth even that much. — **3** Mom had recently gotten obsessed with livestreaming. She called her account “Model Mom Lisa.” She posted about her approach to parenting — the tough love, the public discipline, what she called “choosing principle over family.” Her follower count shot up fast. People flooded the comments: *”This is what a responsible parent looks like.”* *”Kids these days just don’t get enough discipline.”* Mom read every word of praise with a grin she couldn’t wipe off her face. Then one day, our neighbor Mrs. Wilson came knocking. “Lisa… the five hundred dollars I left in my entryway is gone. Do you think maybe… Nicole might have seen it?” Mrs. Wilson was dancing around it, struggling to get the words out. I was doing homework at the time. My head snapped up: “I didn’t take it!” “Be quiet!” Mom snapped at me. She didn’t ask me a single question about what happened. Instead, a flicker of excitement passed through her eyes. “Carol, don’t you worry. I don’t cover for anyone.” Mom immediately grabbed her phone, set up the stand, and flicked on the ring light. Her hands moved with a practiced efficiency that made my skin crawl. “Hey everyone, something just came up. My neighbor’s money is missing, and even though it hurts, I have to do what’s right.” Thousands of viewers flooded the stream within seconds. The title read: **[Neighbor’s Money Stolen — Tough Mom Holds Live Interrogation]** Mom dragged me in front of the camera. “On your knees!” I stood my ground. “I didn’t take anything. Why should I kneel?” “Still playing innocent! You’re the only one who’s been to Carol’s house recently — you dropped something off! Who else could it be?” Mom reached into the sewing basket and pulled out a thick upholstery needle. “I taught you from the time you were little — keep your hands clean.” “If you won’t admit it, I’ll make sure you don’t forget this lesson.” She grabbed my left hand. I thrashed and fought, looking over at Mrs. Wilson: “I swear I didn’t take it!” Mrs. Wilson was starting to look uncomfortable: “Lisa, maybe we should just… let it go. There’s no proof…” “No! It starts with small things and turns into big ones! If I let this slide now, she’ll be a menace to everyone around her!” Mom turned toward the camera, her voice firm and righteous. The comment section erupted: *[Go Mom! That kind of kid needs consequences!]* *[Strict parents raise good kids!]* *[Your values are so right!]* Mom read the comments and was visibly energized. She pinched my index finger, aimed the tip of the needle at the pad of my fingertip. And drove it in. “Ahh—!” I screamed. Cold sweat soaked through my shirt instantly. “Are you going to admit it?” “I didn’t take it…” The needle went in again. Middle finger. Blood welled up and dripped onto the floor. Dad came charging over: “Lisa! Stop! You’re going to do permanent damage!” “Back off!” Mom backhanded him across the face without even turning around. “You don’t know what you’re talking about! I’m doing this for her!” She turned back to the camera, eyes welling up: “Everyone, it hurts me so much more than it hurts her. But I can’t let my heart go soft.” Gifts and donations flooded the stream. The graphic effects burst across the screen in her tears — like fireworks at some grotesque carnival. Ten fingers. All of them punctured. The pain had gone past feeling. I was just collapsed on the floor. But I never once admitted to it. Because I hadn’t done it. — The next day, the police came. Not for me. For Mrs. Wilson. Security footage showed that her own son had taken the money. He’d spent it at the internet café. Mrs. Wilson showed up at our door, mortified, carrying fruit as an apology. “Lisa, I’m so sorry. We wronged Nicole…” My hands were wrapped in thick bandages. I sat in the corner. I thought Mom might feel at least a small amount of guilt. She didn’t. She faced the camera — still live — and waved a breezy hand, smiling like nothing had happened: “Don’t worry about it, Carol.” “This girl is tough. She can take it.” “A lesson now means she won’t go down the wrong path later.” “Think of it as getting ahead of things.” The neighbor left, embarrassed. Mom checked the earnings on her phone’s backend, grinning so wide it almost reached her ears. “Nikki, you see how much I put up with for your sake.” “Lucky for me, my followers have my back.” I looked at her. For the first time, I felt it clearly — she wasn’t my mother. That night, I bit down on my pen and struggled to open the diary. Blood had soaked through the bandages and stained the pages. I crossed out ten days straight. *”Ten fingers. Still couldn’t reach her heart. -10 days.”* — **4** The college entrance exams were over. I did well. Fifty points above the cutoff for four-year universities. It was my last ticket out of this hell. I applied to a university in the south — two thousand miles away. I wanted to see the ocean. I wanted to go somewhere nobody had ever heard of “Model Mom Lisa.” But the acceptance letter never came. Then one day, I found an opened envelope in Mom’s dresser drawer. Local State Teachers College. Designated placement program. My mind went blank with a roar. I grabbed the letter and ran out to confront her. “Why? I applied to Southern University. That was my choice!” Mom was trimming flowers. She didn’t even look up. “I changed it.” Three words. Light as air. “You had no right to change my application! This is my life!” I screamed like I’d lost my mind, tears pouring down my face. “I’m your mother. That’s my right.” Mom set the scissors down on the table, her eyes cold and sharp. “Why do you need to go so far away? What’s gotten into your head?” “Stay here, become a teacher. It’s a respectable life. Stable.” “I already talked to the district coordinator. You’re going to be our community’s ‘Second-Generation Role Model.’ Following in my footsteps.” “Do you know how many people would kill for an opportunity like that?” I was shaking. So that was all I was to her. Not a person. A decoration for her “role model” brand. A tool to extend her ego. “I’m not going! I’ll retake the exam! I’m leaving this place!” I turned to run. Mom grabbed a fistful of my hair and dragged me back to my room. “You’re not going anywhere.” “I have your ID, your documents — all locked up.” “Where are you going to retake anything? Who’s paying for it?” She shoved me inside and locked the door from the outside. “You sit in there and think about your choices. When you come to your senses, you can come out.” I pounded on the door, sobbing and screaming until my voice was gone. Dad’s voice came quietly from the other side: “Lisa, she’s old enough to choose for herself…” “You don’t know anything.” Mom’s cold laugh came through the door. “What does she know about what’s good for her? I decide her future.” “She’ll be a respected teacher one day, and she’ll thank me for it.” I sat on the floor and stared at the iron security bars over my window. Like a cage. Locking away my youth, my dreams, my dignity. I took out my diary. Only one page left. I had been holding onto these last few days, hoping some miracle might still come. Now I understood. There was no miracle coming. I didn’t cross out the page. Instead, I picked up my pen and wrote one line in careful, even letters: *”Mom, since your reputation means everything to you —* *let me give you the most unforgettable ending to your ‘model life’ story.”* — Three days later. The city held a grand ceremony to present Mom with the “City-Level Moral Role Model” plaque. It took place in the plaza right outside our building. Red banners, drums, a crowd packed thick with reporters, officials, and neighbors. Mom let me out. She’d picked out a white dress for me — one she’d worn when she was young. “Today is an important day. You behave yourself.” “When you get up on stage, you thank me for raising you right.” She combed my hair and issued her instructions at the same time. In the mirror, my face was pale. My eyes were empty. “Of course, Mom.” I answered quietly, like I always did. Mom looked satisfied. She thought I had finally given in. The ceremony began. Mom stood on the stage, a large red carnation pinned to her chest, glowing with pride. She accepted the heavy “Moral Role Model” plaque and spoke into the microphone without pause. “The most important thing in raising children is being willing to be the strict one…” “I may be hard on her, but everything I do is for her good…” The crowd applauded. Camera flashes went off like rain. I walked slowly out from behind the stage. In my hands, I held a small green bottle, gripped tight. The emcee blinked: “Oh — is this Lisa’s daughter? Are you here to present flowers?” Every eye in the crowd found me. Mom’s brow furrowed. She lowered her voice: “What are you doing up here? It’s not your turn to speak.” I walked to her side. I stood beneath that enormous “Moral Role Model” plaque. I looked out at the faces in the crowd. Mrs. Wilson. Mr. Lee. Mrs. Taylor. They had all been Mom’s audience. Her accomplices. I raised the bottle. My voice into the microphone was soft, but the speakers carried it everywhere. “Mom, you want your reputation. You want to be a role model.” “So I’m giving you myself.” “Is this enough to make history?” Mom went white: “Nicole! What is that! Put it down!” She reached for it. Too late. I twisted off the cap, tilted my head back. The dark green liquid — smelling of soil and something raw and wrong — poured into my throat. I didn’t hesitate. I drank every last drop.
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