Before the college entrance exams, my mother, terrified that I would slip out of her control, threatened to take her own life unless I applied to a local university.

Desperate, I pleaded with my father to help me. At the last moment, I managed to change my application back to a distant university before the deadline.

But my mother refused to give up. She uprooted the entire family, moving us to my new school just to keep controlling every aspect of my life.

I fell into severe depression.

When she forced me to eat something I was allergic to, I gave in like the obedient daughter she expected me to be.

That was the first—and only—time I ever truly defied her.

I paid for it with my life.

But heaven took pity on me.

I was reborn.

——

Before I even opened my eyes, the familiar sound of an argument echoed in my ears.

"Andrew! You're still thinking about that whore, aren't you? Ha! It’s only been a few months, and you can’t take your eyes off her!"

"I spent half my life toiling for you, bearing your children, and this is how you repay me?"

"Do you even have a heart, Andrew?"

Even through the walls, Mom’s voice pierced my eardrums—sharp, shrill, and relentless.

As always, Dad remained silent, refusing to argue back.

Just like in my past life. He endured everything. Even when I died, he never fought back.

The "whore" my mother referred to was my aunt.

She and my father had once been deeply in love, on the verge of marriage.

But when she brought him home to meet the family, my mother took a liking to him.

She disregarded the bond between the families and drugged my father's drink. That night, she sneaked into his bedroom under the cover of darkness, and soon after, I was conceived.

My aunt’s engagement to Dad was called off. My mother got exactly what she wanted—his last name, his home, and the title of his wife.

I stared at the ceiling, feeling my heart beating strongly in my chest—the undeniable pulse of life.

I used to think I was the problem. That I was weak, incapable of breaking free.

But after dying once, I understood.

The problem wasn’t me.

It was her.

This time, I would save myself, and I would save Dad too.

I pushed myself up from the bed, turned the doorknob, and stepped outside.

My father immediately rose to check on me.

"Alyssa, how are you feeling? Your teacher called me out of nowhere, saying you fainted. I was so worried."

He placed a warm hand on my forehead, only relaxing when he felt my temperature was normal.

Sighing in relief, he continued, "I know your studies are important, but your health comes first. Don't push yourself too hard."

Mom shot me a disdainful look, her exaggerated false eyelashes fluttering.

"You? Studied so hard you fainted? That’s embarrassing! Even I feel ashamed for you."

"Next time, tell your teacher not to bother calling me about such nonsense."

I had fought tooth and nail to get into my dream university, clinging to it as my one legitimate excuse to escape.

Every teacher, every classmate had seen my effort, acknowledged my hard work.

Everyone except my mother.

No matter how much I achieved, she would never recognize my worth.

"Mom, the school is asking us to submit our college applications. Can we discuss it?"

Hearing my words, my father gave me a worried glance, rubbing my back in silent comfort.

He had always known my plans, and deep down, he had always supported them.

"Discuss? What’s there to discuss? You’ll apply to Claremont McKenna College, of course. It’s close to home, so I can take care of you."

I curled my lips into a faint smile.

Just as I expected, nothing had changed.

She had never considered what I wanted.

In my past life, she had said the exact same thing, but I refused.

I had spent all of high school fighting for one thing—freedom. The moment I got into college, I thought I’d finally won.

But with a single sentence, she shattered my dreams.

That night, we had the worst argument in our family’s history.

And I won.

I got accepted to a university two thousand kilometers away.

I thought I was finally free.

But on the second day of school, my mother arrived with her luggage, standing down my dormitory.

Not only that, she insisted she had nowhere else to stay, and so, she moved into my dorm—squeezing into my narrow, single bed.

I became infamous at school.

Wherever I went, Mom followed.

Attending classes with me was one thing—she even insisted on going to the restroom together, forbidding me from locking the door.

My roommates avoided me, and my classmates distanced themselves.

Just like the past twenty years of my life, I had no friends. No close confidantes.

After enduring it for a month, I finally snapped.

"What do you want from me?!" I screamed at her, breaking down. "What will it take for you to leave me alone?!"

She smiled, looking pleased with herself. "This is what happens when you disobey me. If you had just listened and applied to a local university, none of this would’ve happened."

Then she shrugged. "But if you really want me to leave, fine. Drop out. Retake the exams and apply to a school in our city."

I lost control. Right there on the street, I swung my bag at her, striking blindly.

Her smirk disappeared instantly. She burst into tears, sobbing and wailing, mucus running down her face.

Bystanders filmed the scene and uploaded it online.

The internet exploded with hate against me.

My mother started livestreaming, crying about my "unfilial" behavior.

Sympathetic viewers flooded her with comfort and support.

[My god, what kind of daughter is this? That poor mother must’ve done something horrible in her past life to deserve this.]

[If my kid ever dared to raise a hand against me, I'd break their legs. Make them regret ever being born.]

[Filial piety comes first. She’s going to get her karma for this!]

[If she can hit her mom in public, imagine what she does in private! Someone should report her.]

[This girl looks old enough. Juvenile detention won't take her, but the police sure will.]

My mother reveled in it, basking in the attention. Finally, she had something to keep her occupied.

For the first time, she wasn’t solely focused on me.

For the first time, I had a moment of peace.

But it was too late.

My depression had worsened.

When I experienced suicidal thoughts for the first time, fear consumed me, and I reached out to my father for help. Without hesitation, he set aside his work, taking an extended leave to be by my side.

He got me a medical leave from school and followed the doctor’s advice to support my recovery.

He took away my phone, cooked my favorite meals, bought me clothes he thought I’d like.

But no matter what he did, my condition didn’t improve.

Because while Mom continued her online "career," the internet’s hatred never stopped.

The harassment escalated until I couldn't even step outside.

I was too afraid to see their judging eyes, hear their whispers.

If I had done something wrong, I would have accepted the consequences. But I hadn’t.

I just didn’t understand.

Why was my mother like this?

To protect me, Dad rented an apartment in secret. But a viewer spotted me and leaked our location.

From that day on, the torment never stopped.

Hateful messages smeared in animal blood covered our walls—[Unfilial daughter, go die.]

They even sent funeral wreaths to our door.

The landlord caved under the pressure and evicted us.

Once again, my mother won. Dad and I returned home in disgrace.

She lounged on the sofa, admiring her freshly manicured nails, a smug grin painted her lips.

"Oh? Done playing runaway?" she sneered. "Big one and little one, thought you had it all figured out, huh?"

"Now that you're back, get in the kitchen and cook. I’m sick of takeout."

Then she turned to me. "And you—clean yourself up. You look disgusting. You're embarrassing me."

"You're embarrassing me."

How many times had she said that to me? How many times had she made me feel like I wasn’t enough?

I stared at her, my voice barely above a whisper. "Mom, why? Why do you do this to me? How long do you plan on controlling us?"

Immediately, she burst into laughter, tears forming at the corners of her eyes from amusement.

"Control you? You think you're worth controlling?" She smirked. "Even a dog knows to wag its tail at me. But you? You just walk around with that dead face all day."

My father finally had enough. With a loud bang, he slammed a frying pan against the counter.

Surprised, Mom flinched and shrieked, "Are you insane?! What the hell’s wrong with you?!"

"Enough!" he roared. "Alyssa is our daughter! Delete those videos, and stop livestreaming! She developed depression because of you! How much more do you want to torture her?!"

Her expression darkened. "Andrew, if you don’t want this marriage, just say it! You want to break things? Fine! Let’s break everything!"

She grabbed whatever was in reach and started smashing it.

The more expensive, the better.

Shattering glass, cracking wood—the violent noise shook me to my core.

It had always been like this.

Since my earliest memories, any sign of my father’s defiance turned into a full-scale war.

That was why he endured it all—for me.

He thought that if he stayed quiet, if he took the blows instead, at least I wouldn’t have to grow up in constant chaos.

But it didn’t work.

I turned around, went to my room, and slammed the door shut.

The loud bang triggered something in my mother.

She redirected all her fury at me.

She pounded on the door, harder than before, screaming curses as if I were the most vile, ungrateful child in existence.

I curled up under my blanket, covering my ears, but nothing could block her out.

I gripped the sheets tightly, whispering to myself, Hold on. Just hold on. She’ll get tired soon. She always does.

I didn’t know how long it lasted, but eventually, the pounding stopped.

When I finally stepped out, Dad was gone.

And my mother—she slouched on the sofa, breathing heavily from exhaustion.

The moment she saw me, a twisted light flashed in her eyes—victory.

Like a conqueror who had finally scaled an impossible mountain.

A deep, terrible feeling settled in my gut.

Something was wrong.

My mother walked over, holding a bowl of shrimp, smiling sweetly.

"Alyssa, you want me to delete those videos, don’t you? Eat these shrimp, and I’ll delete them. I’ll even stop livestreaming for good. How about that?"

A chill ran down my spine, as if I had plunged into an icy lake in the dead of winter.

This wasn’t a compromise. She was just finding a different way to assert control.

I had been allergic to shrimp since childhood, but Mom always insisted I was just being dramatic.

She was determined to "fix" my bad habit.

When it came to my health, my father never compromised. That was why he was the one who always cooked our meals.

And he had warned me, time and time again, never to eat anything my mother gave me.

If this had happened before, I would’ve grabbed the plate, smashed it on the ground, and immediately called Dad.

But that day, I was exhausted.

I met my mother’s gaze, speaking slowly with a solemn gaze. "Do you really want me to eat this?"

"If I eat this plate of shrimp, I’ll die. Would you still want me to eat it?"

Her eyes lit up with excitement. "Don’t be ridiculous. It’s shrimp! It’s full of nutrients. You’re not going to die just from eating it." She scoffed, shaking her head. "You always say such dramatic things. Your father’s an idiot for believing you all these years. But I’m not as gullible as him. Now eat. Hurry up."

She watched me expectantly, her hands trembling in anticipation.

This silent war between us had lasted nearly twenty years.

And at this moment, she was finally declaring victory.

I felt something inside me break.

I was tired—too tired to resist anymore.

I took the bowl from her hands and stuffed the shrimp into my mouth, one after another. Chewing, swallowing, forcing them down as fast as I could.

My mother’s eyes never left me.

When I finished, she let out a deep sigh of satisfaction.

"See? That wasn’t so bad. You’re perfectly fine."

But I wasn’t.

My throat tightened. I could feel it swelling, and my body heating up.

To make sure I wouldn't, survive, as soon as the first signs of an allergic reaction kicked in, I turned and walked to my room, locking the door behind me.

For once, Mom didn’t scream after me. Instead, she hummed a tune and settled in to watch her dramas, utterly content.

The moment I shut the door, my legs gave out and I collapsed onto the floor.

My skin burned, red welts erupting across my body, itching unbearably.

But the itching didn’t matter.

I could barely breathe.

My airway was closing, but the pain didn’t last long.

Within minutes, the world faded to black.

And for the first time, I felt free.

But my consciousness didn’t disappear.

I didn’t leave. I remained, trapped within these walls, unable to move on.

That evening, my father came home.

He carried fresh lettuce and a small strawberry cake—my favorite.

Mom, in an uncharacteristically good mood, greeted him with a smile instead of an argument.

"Oh, you went shopping? Don’t cook too much. Alyssa already ate."

My father froze. His eyes snapped at hers, sharp and cold. "What did you give her?"

She waved a hand dismissively. "Shrimp. See? I told you she could eat it. You just coddled her too much. Honestly, she gets more dramatic by the day. From now on, she should—"

The groceries slipped from Dad’s grasp, hitting the floor with a dull thud.

Without a second thought, he bolted to my room.

And when the door didn’t open—he threw his entire body against it.