Under my mother’s strict discipline, I was successfully admitted to Harvel University. On the day the results were announced, everyone praised my mother’s educational methods, believing she would enjoy a happy life. A reporter came to interview her, and she shared her educational experiences without any humility. She said, “Only through strict discipline can a child achieve success.” The whole city was celebrating for me. However, I left a farewell letter and stood on the rooftop. I thought, “Mom, you wanted me to go to Harvel University, and I got accepted. Please let me go.” My mother held a doctorate, and my father had a master’s degree from a prestigious university. After I was born, I could speak at seven months and walk at eight months. Everyone praised me as a naturally smart child, saying that with proper nurturing, I would surely get into Harvel University. My mother thought the same. She even used Harvel as my name, naming me Harvel Walsh. She was very dedicated to this goal. By the time I was three, I still couldn’t write well. I went to kindergarten during the day and came home at night to recite past presidential speeches. While my peers played freely in the yard, I envied them, always peering longingly through the window. When my mother noticed, she had the curtains drawn, cutting off my desire to see the outside world completely. She would hit my palms with a stick, her face full of disdain. “These kids are already losing at the starting line and will achieve nothing great in the future. You cannot be led astray by them.” Relatives advised my mother to have another child, saying such good genes shouldn’t be wasted. But my mother firmly refused. “All my time and energy must be devoted to Harvel. She is meant to go to Harvel University; she cannot be distracted.” Then she turned to me and said, “I’ve sacrificed so much and pinned all my hopes on you. You must succeed in your application.” When I started elementary school, my mother’s methods became even stricter. I had to complete extra exercises she assigned until midnight, barely getting enough sleep. I often fell asleep over my work. My mother would stand behind me and wake me with a thin stick. “All you do is sleep. You’re not allowed to sleep until these exercises are finished.” In pain, I would tear up but dared not resist. Over time, my mental state deteriorated. Relatives couldn’t bear to watch anymore and said my mother was stifling my natural talent and would drive me crazy sooner or later. My mother was furious, accusing them of being jealous of her genius daughter. Relatives told my father, who worked far away, but he was powerless to intervene. He could only advise relatives to mind their own business. Later, the relatives stopped visiting, saying our family was crazy and anyone who got involved would be unlucky. But my mother was very satisfied with the situation. Every day, she stood behind me with a stick, watching me do my exercises. “Now that no one dares to disturb you, let’s see how you can slack off.” The stack of exercise books beside my desk kept growing higher. I felt exhausted. After graduating from elementary school, I entered the best junior high school in the city. In this new environment, no one knew me. Because of that, I made my first friend. Her name was Melinda Acosta, and she was my deskmate. Melinda was cheerful and struck up a conversation with me right away, sharing her favorite snacks. I was thrilled and reluctant to eat the snacks she gave me, keeping them hidden in my backpack. After school, I eagerly gave the snacks to my mother and told her about my first friend. But my mother turned around and threw the snacks into the trash, scolding me for being distracted by trivial things. I lowered my head and dared not speak further. She then asked about the girl’s grades. I answered honestly, “She’s at the bottom of the class.” My mother’s expression darkened, and she said nothing more. The next day, Melinda refused to play with me and even asked the teacher for a seat change. I was confused and went to ask her. Melinda shoved me hard and shouted, “Your mom called my house and said that a poor student like me doesn’t deserve to be friends with you and will only drag you down!” The whole class looked over, whispering among themselves. “What’s so great about good grades that you look down on others?” “Is her mom crazy? What’s wrong with having poor grades? How can she insult others?” I was so upset that tears streamed down my face as I walked away silently. Returning to my seat, I found that the desk and chair next to me were gone. The homeroom teacher awkwardly told me, “Your mother insisted that you sit alone, saying that other students would affect your studies.” I kept my head down and said I understood. From that day on, no one dared to come near me, afraid of being warned by my mother for talking to me. I ate alone every day, attended classes alone, and went home alone. Every night, I did exercises until late into the night. In every exam, I was at the top of the grade. My mother proudly proclaimed it everywhere. She said her daughter was indeed born to go to Harvel University. I bitterly thought, “Is this talent?” I touched the thick calluses on my hands. They were the marks left by countless exercises. Later, I entered the top high school in the province with the highest score in the city. I broke the record for the highest score ever and was awarded ten thousand dollars. My mother gleefully collected the money. Many of her colleagues came to ask her for advice on how to raise such an outstanding child. My mother called each one to share her experience. “I think it’s still about talent. Both my husband and I graduated from prestigious universities, so how could our child be any worse? “If there’s no talent, then it’s all about effort. My Harvel does ten worksheets a day without fail. “No talent and no effort? Then use punishment. Discipline produces devoted children and talented ones.” She posted a video on her Twitter account. The title was [Strict Mothers Are Good Mothers] In the video, when I got a question wrong, she hit my back with a stick. The post was shared by her colleagues and unexpectedly made the front page of a small but prominent newspaper’s website. The headline was: [Will Children Raised by Strict Mothers Become Successful or Rebel?] My mother firmly commented: [Of course they will become successful. Harvel has never defied me.] But soon, my actions completely embarrassed her.
At the top high school in the province, I was surrounded by classmates who were both intelligent and hardworking. I found it increasingly difficult to keep up with my studies. In the first monthly exam, my grades plummeted—I fell to 30th place in the year. My mother couldn’t accept this. She stormed into the school and caused a huge scene. She insisted there must have been a mistake in the grading process and demanded a recheck. “Harvel has been a top student all her life. How could she possibly rank so low? You must have taken bribes and deliberately marked her down!” The teachers were frustrated but helpless. I felt incredibly embarrassed and tried to tug at my mother’s sleeve, hoping she would leave. But she slapped me hard across the face, her expression twisted with rage. “Harvel, you’d better pray they really made a mistake, or you’ll be in big trouble!” I clutched my face and retreated to a corner. The teachers tried to persuade her, saying that no matter what, she shouldn’t lay hands on a child. But my mother wouldn’t listen. She was adamant about the recheck. Unable to stop her, the teachers had to call in the principal. The principal asked the teachers to pull out my exam papers and regrade them right in front of her. The results were the same. My mother’s face turned dark. Without a word, she dragged me home roughly, without even asking for leave. Back home, in that study with the sealed-off windows, I endured a beating worse than ever before. “Harvel, is this how you repay me? You think I can’t control you anymore? If you keep scoring this low, how do you expect to get into Harvel University?” I curled up in the corner, shutting my eyes against the pain. All the wounds were on my back; when I returned to school, no one would see them. I had become infamous at school. Everyone was talking about how my mother had made a scene. But I had grown numb to it. This wasn’t the first time something like this had happened. The teachers were concerned and subtly asked if I needed help. I shook my head and forced a smile. I knew no one could help me. For the first time, I skipped class and wandered to the pond behind the school. The pond was filled with thick lotus leaves, and the blooming lotuses were beautiful and mesmerizing. I stood there, lost in thought, and a dangerous idea flashed through my mind. I thought, “If I jump in, no one will find me. It would be a way to end all this suffering.” I didn’t even want my mother to have my body. I pressed my lips together and moved closer to the railing. “Woof… woof…” I had one foot over the railing when I suddenly heard a faint bark from the bushes nearby. I stopped and slowly pulled my leg back. I thought, “I should take a look. One last look.” I never had a childhood—only endless practice papers day and night. When I was seven, I dared to ask my mother if we could get a cat or a dog. But she coldly refused. To her, anything that could tempt me was a devil luring me to stray from my path. It wasn’t that I particularly liked cats or dogs—I just wanted to feel the presence of something alive. I just wanted to feel that I was still alive. I walked in the direction of the sound. As I got closer, I saw a boy crouching in the bushes. He was focused on feeding a small dog with a piece of sausage. I recognized him. He was Spencer Benton. He was the second-highest scorer in the recent monthly exams. His photo was on the school’s honor roll. Noticing my presence, he looked up and offered me the remaining half of the sausage with a gentle smile. “Do you want to feed it?” I pressed my lips together, silently took the sausage, and fed it to the little dog. The puppy ate eagerly, occasionally licking my fingers with its tongue. The sensation was strange and new. I was surprised by the feeling and found myself smiling for the first time in a long while. After feeding it the rest of the sausage, I was still reluctant to let go of the moment. “You’ve had your fill for today. No more being greedy.” Spencer gently stroked the puppy’s fur. His voice was soft and soothing. I was a bit surprised and asked quietly, “Do good students skip classes too?” Spencer chuckled and glanced at me. “Didn’t you skip class too?” I bit my lip and instinctively lowered my head. It was then that I noticed the faint white scars on the inside of his wrist. “You…” I instantly understood why he was wearing long sleeves in the summer. I looked at him in shock. Spencer seemed to notice my gaze. He tugged at his sleeve, hiding his exposed wrist. He continued stroking the dog, his eyes downcast. “Her name is Bonbon. Isn’t she cute?” “Bonbon was born to a stray dog here on campus. Her mom was beaten to death. She’s all alone, so I come by every day to feed her.” While he spoke, I sat down beside him. No one had ever shared anything personal with me before, so I listened with keen interest. Then, suddenly, Spencer fell silent. I looked at him in confusion. “To be honest, I saw you thinking about ending your life earlier, so I purposely made Bonbon bark. I bet you’d have something to hold on to.” He lifted his eyes, a faint, pained smile on his pale face. “And I was right. You came back on your own.” “Because we’re the same.” I froze, stunned. Maybe it was because it was the first time I had met someone in the same situation. We found so much in common. He told me about his family. He had a twin brother who was a genius. His brother had won numerous national awards and had already been admitted to a prestigious university. As his twin, Spencer had grown up constantly being compared to him. Without his brother’s high intelligence, Spencer had to work a hundred times harder to make up for it. But he could never quite measure up. I looked at him earnestly. “But you’re already very good.” Spencer gave a bitter smile. “If only they thought like you.” By “they,” he meant his parents. I fell silent, feeling unqualified to comfort him. Spencer didn’t seem to mind. He picked up Bonbon and placed her in her little nest. Before leaving, he extended an invitation. “Do you want to come by tomorrow to feed Bonbon together?” I nodded eagerly, feeling a secret surge of joy. I felt that this place had become a secret paradise, just for the two of us. On my way back to class, my steps felt lighter, and it seemed like even the breeze smelled sweet. But as soon as I reached the classroom, my smile froze. My mother was standing right outside the door, staring at me with cold, unforgiving eyes.
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