My mom was born with a silver spoon in her mouth. Her life is smooth-sailing most of the time. The only mistake she's ever made is falling for my dad. That's why she insists on finding me a husband who's the complete opposite of my dad.

My dad is tall and intimidating-looking, so Mom wants someone who's short and perverted-looking.

My dad is a knowledgeable and well-read man, so Mom wants a guy who has only graduated from elementary school.

My dad prioritizes his moral integrity more than anything else, so Mom prefers a guy who drinks, gambles, and sleeps around.

She tells me, "This type of man is easy to manipulate, unlike your father, who just divorced me out of nowhere!"

It's true that the man Mom has chosen for me won't divorce me. After all, he leeches from me on top of beating me up.

It's not enough to leech my money from me, it seems—he just has to take everything from me.

My mom says in a righteous tone, "This is the only way that proves you're valuable to him. He won't divorce you at all."

I've fought back and escaped from my husband many times. Every time I do, my mom will trick me into returning to him by hurting herself.

As always, I'm greeted with another round of beating whenever I do return to him.

Mom will take me to the hospital to get my injuries treated. Then, she'll say, "Hurry up and give birth to a son for him. Once you have a son, you'll be extremely valuable to your husband. He won't beat you up anymore."

Today is supposed to be the day Mom takes me to the hospital to check my ovulation timing. She spends a long time calling me on the phone, yet I never pick up.

After that, she sends me a few audio messages that last for 60 seconds each just to lecture me.

"Beatrice Anderson, what makes you think you can just ignore my calls? The hospital check-up is for your own good! As long as you can get pregnant with a son, your husband will be wrapped around your finger! He won't divorce you after this! Why can't you understand how much I care for you?"

I seriously can't understand at all.

After all, I've gotten beaten to death yesterday. My corpse is cut into 28 chunks, and they are being frozen in the fridge as I speak.

My soul clung to the pearl earring Mom had given me, and it was shoved into the refrigerator along with my head.

It was freezing. I realized that extreme cold could burn my skin like searing fire. I couldn't see anything around me. The utter darkness and excruciating pain were unbearable.

I was terrified. I pounded weakly on the refrigerator door, struggling to scream, "Is anyone here? Can someone come save me?"

I was so cold, in so much pain, and so frightened. In the depths of my despair, I even thought of Mom. Even though she was the one who pushed me into this nightmare, I wondered if she would come for me once she noticed I was missing.

"Mom… Help me… Mom…"

…

Perhaps my prayers truly worked. In a daze, I actually heard Mom's footsteps. Her steps had always been hurried. She took out her keys, unlocked the door, and stepped inside.

My frozen fingers trembled with excitement. Mom was here. Mom came to save me!

The moment the lock clicked, her voice rang out. "Beatrice Anderson! Get out here right now! What kind of tantrum are you throwing? Do you have any idea how hard it was to get that specialist appointment today? Do you even have a conscience, wasting my efforts like this?"

The hope that had sparked inside me was snuffed out. Out of habit, I apologized softly, "I'm sorry, Mom. I didn't mean to."

Mom searched the house, and when she couldn't find me, she tried calling my phone. The ringtone came from the ice tray above my head. My phone had been tucked into the freezer compartment right along with my torso.

My spirits rose again as I urged her to keep calling so the sound would lead her to me.

Sure enough, I heard Mom's footsteps drawing closer, until she was only a few steps away from the refrigerator. I was overjoyed, and I began banging my hands against the refrigerator door. "Mom, I'm here!"

Suddenly, the footsteps stopped before veering off toward the kitchen right next to the refrigerator.

"Filthy girl, this is disgusting," she grumbled. "If I hadn't walked over to the fridge, I never would've seen how dirty the kitchen is. She acts all proper and put-together in public, but in private, she's nothing like a real wife. How can she stand to look at a kitchen this disgusting?"

Mom turned on the faucet, tossed her phone aside, and started cleaning the kitchen. The sounds of scrubbing pots, washing dishes, and scouring the range hood with steel wool reached my ears one after another.

Mom was a doctor and obsessed with cleanliness. Growing up, she cleaned our home to the same rigorous standards as a transplant ward.

Mom required our home to be completely free of dust and water stains. We had to wash our hands three times using the seven-step technique, and we had to strip and disinfect ourselves before entering the house. Even the trash can had to stay completely empty.

Once she started cleaning, she wouldn't stop for hours.

I grew frantic and shouted, "Mom, stop cleaning! Grayson will be back in five hours! Once he returns, you'll never be able to save me."

Unfortunately, no matter how loudly I yelled, Mom stayed busy with her chores over there.

After a while, I heard her grumbling in confusion, "What is this junk in the sink? It's stuck, and I can't pull it out."

My eyes lit up instantly. That wasn't junk; those were my fingers that Grayson Moore had snapped off by force. Before killing me, he had chopped them into pieces with a kitchen knife right before my eyes and flushed them down the drain just to break my spirit.

Mom was a doctor, so she would definitely be able to tell that those were chopped human fingers!

I was overwhelmed with excitement and prayed silently for her to pick them up, examine them, and find me. A loud roar shattered my hope as the garbage disposal beneath the sink whirred to life.

"How did I give birth to such a filthy creature? It's a blessing that I chose a son-in-law as wonderful as Grayson, who's willing to put up with her. Any other man would've divorced her long ago.

"It's a good thing that I came. If Grayson had come home first and found the kitchen this messy, he would've thought that I failed as a parent. She is almost 30 and still needs her mom to clean up her mess; what a waste of a life."

At that moment, my heart turned colder than the freezer. Mom, you did clean up a mess, but it wasn't mine. You personally ground the evidence of Grayson's crime and my last shred of hope into pulp before flushing them away.

…

I lost track of how long Mom spent in the kitchen, but listening to her criticisms of me made every second feel like an eternity.

"Why isn't she back yet?" Mom suddenly muttered.

A minute later, my phone rang again. There was still hope!

I held my breath, hoping the silence would help her notice the phone ringing above me.

Sure enough, Mom walked straight to the refrigerator this time. A sliver of light slipped in from outside. She squatted in front of the fridge and peered inside suspiciously.

Above my head, the phone chirped and sang, "Hush, little baby, don't say a word, Mama's going to buy you a mockingbird. And if that mockingbird don't sing, Mama's going to buy you a diamond ring."

Mom pulled out the ice tray, took the bag of minced meat, and spread it on the floor to inspect it. I was about to burst into tears.

"Beatrice, are you an idiot? You actually froze your phone in the refrigerator. It's no wonder you didn't answer when I called. What exactly is inside your head?

"And look at this meat. What kind of meat did you buy? Haven't I taught you not to buy meat with bruises? How many times do I have to tell you that bruised meat means the pig was injured or diseased? You have no basic common sense. No wonder Grayson hits you. You're mindless and deserve it."

It was strange. Even though I was already dead, her words felt like they were killing me all over again.

Mom, that wasn't a diseased pig. That was my back, covered in the bruises Grayson gave me. There was a small mole on it. Couldn't you recognize it?

I remembered the first time Grayson beat me. I had limped out of the house and gone to Mom to ask for help.

When she learned that Grayson hit me because I couldn't cook, she said coldly, "Your husband works hard all day and can't even get a hot meal when he gets home. I think you truly earned that beating."

I stood frozen, unsure of how to respond. As far as I could remember, she had never cooked a single day at home. She used to argue that since everyone had to work and support the family, there was no reason she should be the one in the kitchen.

When I gathered my courage and stammered those very words back to her, she raised her hand and slapped me.

Mom's face had flushed red as she barked in anger, "Why do you have to compare yourself to me at every turn? It was because I couldn't cook that your dad despised me and wanted a divorce.

"I suffered for it, so you need to learn your lesson and make your marriage work! I'm already divorced. If you end up divorced too, how am I supposed to face anyone?"

I wanted to tell Mom that Dad hadn't divorced her because she couldn't cook. It was her obsessive need for control and her paranoid personality that suffocated him and drove him away. But I lacked the courage to say it.

I lowered my eyes and followed Mom home submissively, admitting my mistakes to Grayson to protect her pride. That night, he beat me again.

Life was truly unfair. Grayson and I were both only five feet and four inches tall, yet he was so much stronger than I was. He had beaten me so badly that I couldn't get out of bed.

When I called Mom to tell her, she spoke with utter disdain, "Beatrice, if you're going to lie, at least make it believable. I'd believe you if you said you and Grayson had a minor conflict, but is it possible he beat you so badly that you couldn't get out of bed? I'm telling you, the man I personally chose isn't that kind of person!"

At that moment, I realized Mom would see only what she wanted. Or rather, she would twist everything into what she wished it to become. She built towering walls around her heart, locked herself in, and shut me out.

…

While Mom was cleaning up the pile of minced meat, Grayson came back.

Grayson's voice cut through the air, tense and sharp. "Mom, what are you doing?"

Mom was incredibly warm. "Grayson, you're home from work. It must have been a long day. Sit down."

Her hands didn't stop as she wrapped the minced meat in layer after layer of plastic bags. "Look at how careless Beatrice is. She didn't even realize she left her phone in the fridge. This meat is low quality, so don't eat it. I'll throw it out for you. By the way, why isn't Beatrice back yet?"

Grayson's voice relaxed instantly. "Thanks, Mom. Beatrice is always like this, sloppy with everything. Mom, give me the phone."

Mom said, "That girl lacks discipline. You need to put more effort into setting her straight."

"Mom, I could never bring myself to do that," Grayson answered.

"What's there to feel bad about? Hit her when she deserves it. If you don't, she'll go wild. Look at this—it's already so late, and she still isn't home," Mom said.

"Beatrice has been busy lately. Please be more understanding," Grayson replied.

"The son-in-law I chose really knows how to treat his wife well," Mom said.

Their words slipped through my fingers as I covered my ears, each one stabbing me like a thousand tiny cuts.

…

About seven days passed.

Every day, Grayson left the house with a bag of minced meat. After he had removed seven bags, Mom returned. When she still found no sign of me in the house, she became furious.

I listened with grim satisfaction as she banged around the room and cursed nonstop.

"Beatrice, are you hiding from me? You heartless brat! Why won't you answer my calls? All I wanted was for you to have a son so you could hold on to Grayson's heart.

"Why can't you understand me? Get out here! Where are you? Get out!"

Give it up, Mom. You would never find me in this lifetime.

I couldn't tell what she was doing inside, but after a flurry of crashing and rummaging sounds, she made another call. "Is this Ms. Robinson? I'm Beatrice's mom. I have something to ask you."

My heart leaped immediately. Emma Robinson was the Dean of Students at my school and my direct supervisor. Since I hadn't gone to work for many days, she must have noticed something. Could this be my chance to be saved?

Mom continued, "Has Beatrice been at work these last few days? She resigned? To prepare for pregnancy? Oh, I see. Yes, that's right. My son-in-law turned in the resignation letter?

"That was nothing unusual, nothing at all. I've wanted her to quit long ago. Why should a woman work when she could stay home and produce a son? It's completely against the natural order.

"As women, we have a duty to carry on the family line, don't we? All these women focused only on their careers and not having children—they've clearly lost their minds from too much schooling."