Chapter 6

When I opened my eyes, I found myself in a hospital bed.

Turns out, my mom had called an ambulance and rushed me here.

My mom's hair had started to turn gray, and as she took my hand, she seemed so much older all of a sudden.

When she saw me wake up, she looked stunned for a moment, then forced a smile. "Sweetie, you're awake?"

I was taken aback.

Since I grew up, my mom had never called me "sweetie" again.

I struggled to sit up, trying to cover up just how wrecked I really was, but my mom gently held me down and tidied my hair for me. "If you're not feeling well, just say so. Why do you bottle it all up inside and keep me in the dark?"

She gently traced my cheek. "Sweetie, do you feel ashamed because your parents are working as housekeepers?"

I shook my head hard, really fast. "No, not at all!"

My mom smiled with relief and nodded. "Glad to hear it."

She grabbed the pitcher. "Now I can relax. Just rest up, I'll go fetch you some water."

I tried telling her it was fine. I could do it myself. But she waved me off and wouldn't take no for an answer.

Her hunched back shuffled slowly toward the door.

After a few steps, she glanced back at me. "Sweetie, your dad and I bend over at work just so you can live with your head held high. You get that, right?"

I nodded, and for reasons I couldn't even put into words, my heart started racing.

My mom turned to get the water, and seeing just how drained she looked made my chest hurt.

All at once, I wanted to call after her, pull her into a hug, and finally lay it all out. I wanted to say, "Mom, I want a divorce. I can't do this anymore."

But the doctor's warning kept echoing in my head, so I just swallowed back the words.

So I just sat there, watching her walk away.

Later, I'd replay that moment in my head a thousand times, and every single time, it hurt so much that it felt unbearable, like I couldn't go on.

Why did I keep silent that day? Why didn't I speak up?

The hot water room was just next door, but I waited ten minutes, and my mom still hadn't come back.

I couldn't wait any longer. I wanted to ask a nurse to take out my IV so I could go find her.

But just as I pressed the call button, my phone buzzed with a message from my mom: [Sweetie, I've become nothing but a burden to you. I made you lose all your dignity, forced you to beg like a dog. Sometimes I feel like I'm a curse just for being alive.]

[If I'm gone, Braxton won't be able to use me against you anymore. If he ever tries to mess with you again, slap him hard. Tell him you're your parents' precious kid, not someone he can walk all over.]

[I've thought about this for a long time. Instead of helping you, I keep tying you down. So, I've decided to do one last thing for you—stop holding you back.]

I felt like I couldn't breathe.

My fingers lost all strength, and my phone hit the floor hard.

Suddenly, it dawned on me that my mom had already woken up earlier that day.

Her doctor had warned me before: with her mind so confused, my mom could easily end up making extreme and dangerous decisions.

Panic washed over me, suffocating and relentless.

I yanked out my IV in a rush and called Mom, my hands shaking all over.

No one picked up.

It felt like fear was shrieking right inside my head.

With shaking hands, I ripped out the IV—the sharp tip sliced through my flesh, and blood began trickling down the back of my hand.

Not even glancing at the mess, I dashed straight out of the room.

The moment I burst into the hallway, I heard a sickening thud echo from down the corridor.

Instantly, frantic voices started yelling, "Someone jumped off the building! Oh my god, somebody jumped!"

People were crowded around the window at the end of the hallway.

I rushed to the window and looked down—on the ground below, a hunched figure lay motionless in a pool of blood.

A stabbing pain shot through my chest, so fierce that I nearly collapsed.

My legs nearly gave out, but I forced myself to dash downstairs like I'd lost my mind, praying to every god I'd ever heard of.

But it was all for nothing.

My mom's face, covered in blood, was right in front of me.

Her eyes were still open.

My legs buckled, and I fell to my knees, unable to say a single word.

But my mind was spinning out of control, every memory of my mom buying me things as a kid—hairpins, dolls, little dresses, building blocks, even my first bike—came flooding back, one after another.

When my mom bought me a doll, she'd say, "If other kids get Barbies, then my daughter gets one, too."

And when she picked out pretty hairpins or little dresses, she'd always say, "If other families have little princesses, then my daughter is a princess just as much."

She couldn't afford the pricey Lego courses, so she picked up a cheap box of building blocks instead, just hoping I'd accept the substitute.

When she handed them over, her eyes were all swollen and red from crying.

Then a few months later, when she finally got her year-end bonus, she wasted no time—she signed me up for an entire year of Lego classes, trying her best to make it up to me.

When I was learning to ride a bike, she gritted her teeth and went to the mall, dropping half a month's salary on the absolute best helmet she could find—just so I could be safe.