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."

"Hey, how can you talk like that? What do you mean by saying I'm unreasonable?" Mom said over the phone.

I no longer knew how to feel about Mom.

Back then, Grandma looked down on me because I was a girl and urged Mom to have a son. Mom argued that having a second child would cost her her job. She believed her life was meant to shine in the medical field, and she would never let herself be trapped in pregnancy again.

But when it came to me, she told me, "Your dad divorced me because we didn't have a son! You must give Grayson a boy!"

Her life was split in two. She kept the best for herself and left all the hardship to me. I was a fool to see through her only when it was already too late.

…

After finishing the call, Mom went out in high spirits. Before long, she returned, carrying several large bags.

She muttered to herself, "This bag of acidic ingredients is for Grayson, and this alkaline one is for Beatrice. Within six months, they will surely give me a precious grandson."

I found it hilarious. "Oh, Mom, just open the fridge and take a look. Your wonderful son-in-law already chopped me into 28 pieces, yet you're still dreaming of a grandson."

It was truly pathetic. I laughed so hard that tears ran down my face on their own.

After a flurry of activity, Mom suddenly opened the refrigerator. She snatched the bag containing my head and threw it onto the floor, grumbling, "What is this junk? It's taking up the whole fridge. I'm throwing all of this out later."

Exposed to the light once more, I greedily inhaled the fresh air. It felt wonderful. The air was no longer cold and damp with the stench of raw flesh; it was crisp and clean.

Just as my eyes welled with tears at seeing the light again, Mom grabbed my head and carried me out the door with the trash from the kitchen. "I'm taking this to the trash collection point right now."

Mom opened the door and stepped outside.

The trash collection point?

Panic set in. I didn't want to go to the trash collection point! I didn't want to rot in filth and stench. I wanted to stay clean.

I screamed with all my strength, "Mom, no! Don't throw me in the dump! Open the bag and look. I'm Beatrice. I'm right here in the bag!

"I'm begging you, please open the bag and see. Aren't you even a little curious about something so round? That is… your daughter…"

I howled and shouted until my throat bled, but Mom never slowed, striding firmly toward the trash collection point. I could already smell its stench, and I sank into true despair.

Suddenly, Mom stopped. A woman stood before her, greeting her. I recognized her as my neighbor, Dorothy Brightwell. She had once knocked on our door to stop Grayson when he was beating me severely.

After exchanging a few pleasantries, Dorothy suddenly asked tentatively, "I haven't seen Beatrice in a long time. Is something wrong?"

Looking blissful, Mom replied, "She's staying indoors to prepare for her pregnancy. There's too much pollution outside, so she doesn't come out much."

Dorothy finally seemed relieved and said, "That's good. The other day, your son-in-law beat Beatrice so badly that she screamed all night. I thought she might have been seriously hurt and ended up in the hospital."

Mom grew annoyed. "What nonsense are you talking about? How could my son-in-law hit Beatrice? He's a man of honor. He would never do such a thing!"

Dorothy scoffed. "He wouldn't? Stop lying to yourself. It's only by sheer luck that Beatrice wasn't beaten to death."

Dorothy rolled her eyes at Mom and started to leave, but Mom wouldn't let her go, grabbing her by the arm. "Don't you leave. Explain it clearly. How exactly did my son-in-law beat—"

Dorothy swung her arm to shake Mom off. Mom stumbled, losing her balance, and the trash in her hands spilled everywhere. A round object rolled out.