Chapter 1

My 57-year-old mom suddenly became obsessed with steamed apples.

Every morning, she would eat five, three at lunch, and two more in the evening.

I tried to advise her not to overdo it, but she said, "Steamed apples are great for your stomach. They're way better than any of those health supplements you buy."

After three months, I insisted on taking her for a health check-up.

When the results came out, the doctor looked at the test report, then stared at my mom for a solid thirty seconds.

The doctor was surprised.

He asked, "What exactly have you been eating these past three months? You've created a miracle here."

*****

I was Selena Hendrix, 30, working as a designer at a mid-sized company. My life was pretty ordinary, and honestly, the only thing that ever really got on my nerves was my mom, Sophia Hendrix.

Three months ago, she suddenly kicked off this health craze I couldn't understand, steamed apples. Yep, she'd steam apples and eat them, nothing fancy, apples in a pot.

At first, I thought she was trying something new. But soon, things spiraled out of control. It was like she was possessed. She had to eat ten steamed apples every single day, no matter what.

Five in the morning, three at noon, and two more before bed. Our fridge was stuffed with apples, and the whole house always carried this sweet and oddly fruity scent.

I tried talking to her a few times. "Mom, you're eating way too many. Apples have a lot of sugar. You really only need one a day."

She didn't even look up, kept digging into the mushy apples with her spoon. "You don't understand. This is healing with food," she said.

"But that doesn't really make sense. You're supposed to eat things in moderation." I tried to reason with her, using whatever little knowledge I had.

She finally looked up at me. "I know my own body. Steamed apples are good for my stomach, way better than all those medicines you keep buying me." Then she went right back to her apples. So stubborn, there was no arguing with her.

I looked at her graying hair and her face, hardened by stubbornness, almost like a stranger to me. Helplessness washed over me.

Ever since Dad passed away a year ago, Mom had become so quiet and withdrawn. I thought time would heal her, but it was like she'd built an even thicker shell around herself. Now, eating steamed apples had become her one and only fixation.

I worried about her health. A 57-year-old woman was eating so much sugar every day. Was she at risk for diabetes? Would it throw off her nutrition? My anxiety kept growing.

I started searching online, like the benefits and risks of steamed apples, how many apples seniors should eat per day, what happens if you eat too many apples for a long time, and so on.

The answers were all over the map. Some said apples were great, some warned against them, but nobody was eating apples as their main course, the way Mom did.

I showed her some scary headlines. "Mom, look, this one says too many apples can cause hyperglycemia, a serious spike in your blood sugar. And here, this one says it could mess up your stomach."

She glanced at my phone and replied coolly, "You can't trust anything online. Your dad believed all that stuff, and he let a small problem turn into something big."

As soon as Dad came up, the mood instantly froze. I knew it was a sore spot for both of us, so I shut up.

But I couldn't sit back and do nothing. So I took action. I stashed away every apple I could find in the house.

That night, Mom walked into the kitchen like always, getting ready to steam her two apples before bed. A few minutes later, she came out, her face totally calm, and asked, "Selena, where are the apples?"

"Mom, I put them away. You can't eat anymore. It's not good for you," I said, forcing myself to meet her gaze.

She didn't explode like I thought she would, not even a flicker of emotion. She stared at me for a long time. Her gaze was layered with disappointment, helplessness, and sadness.

"Selena, please give me back the apples," Mom said softly, her voice almost pleading. "You don't get it. I need them."

"Why do you need them so much? Can't you at least tell me why?" I pushed her for an answer.

She shook her head, her lips moved as if she wanted to say something, but in the end, she stayed silent. She turned and went back to her room, closing the door behind her.

That night, I couldn't sleep at all. I could hear faint sighs coming from her room.

The next morning, I stumbled out of my room with dark circles under my eyes. Mom was already sitting at the table. There were no steamed apples, but oatmeal. When she saw me, she managed a smile. "Selena, I won't eat them anymore."

I felt a wave of relief, but seeing her so lonely and dejected, my heart ached. I thought that was the end of it.

But I was wrong. That afternoon, when I got home from work, the second I stepped inside, that same sweet, weird apple smell hit me.

I rushed straight to the kitchen and found her standing by the stove, guarding a pot of steaming apples. She'd gone out and bought them herself from the supermarket downstairs.

My patience finally snapped. "Mom, why won't you ever listen?" I yelled, rushing over and turning off the stove. "What are you trying to do to yourself?"

She was startled, staring at me, totally confused.

"Are you trying to ruin your health? Is that what you want?" My voice trembled with emotion.

Her eyes were getting teary as she looked at me. "Selena, please, don't stop me. I'm begging you. Let me eat them," she pleaded.

Anger and heartbreak tangled up inside me, leaving me completely lost. We stood there in the kitchen, surrounded by the sweet scent of apples, locked in a standoff. The air felt so heavy, I could barely breathe.

After a long pause, I finally made up my mind and took a deep breath. "Alright, I won't interfere anymore," I said. "But there's a catch."

She looked up at me with a puzzled expression.

"You can keep eating them for three more months. But after that, you have to come with me for a full check-up at the hospital. If everything checks out, I swear I'll never bring it up again.

"But if there's any problem, you have to promise to stop, not arguments," I said, locking eyes with her and making sure she caught every word.

She fell silent. I knew she was wavering. She couldn't stand hospitals; ever since Dad passed, she had a deep aversion to them.

"Mom, this is my bottom line," I said, my voice firm, leaving no room for negotiation.

After a long pause, she finally nodded. "Okay," she said softly. "I promise."

As soon as she said it, it was as if all her energy had left her. She slowly turned back around and switched the stove on. The water in the pot started boiling again, steam wrapping around her, making her silhouette hazy.

I stared at Mom's back, feeling all sorts of emotions tangled up inside me. I honestly had no idea if I'd made the right call. The next three months were going to be pure torture for both of us.

And as for this crazy gamble we were making with her health. I had no clue what was waiting for us at the end.