When I opened my eyes again, I was in a hospital.

A few feet away, a cheerful family was laughing together. I watched them with a faint pang of envy.

“Why is she allowed to eat a burger?” I asked.

The doctor blinked in surprise. “Sorry, what did you say?”

“Those are junk food. Mom told me since I was little that eating them is bad for my health,” I replied.

The doctor smiled patiently as he explained, “You don’t need to worry that much. Eating something like that once in a while won’t hurt you.”

I shook my head quickly. “No. Mom would be upset if she found out.”

A bitter smile tugged at my lips.

In my almost 18 years, I had never once eaten my fill, all for the sake of Mom’s so-called idea of a “perfect body", let alone a burger.

Just then, Mom burst into the room. Without a word, she marched straight to the doctor and started yelling, pointing her finger right at his face.

“What kind of quack are you? Do you even have any professional ethics? How dare you tell my child to eat junk food? Show me your credentials. I swear I’ll be filing a complaint. Having my child stay here is nothing short of poisoning her.”

As her shouting filled the room, a wave of shame spread through me, burning from the inside out.

The doctor kept his composure. “Mrs. White, there are no absolutes when it comes to nutrition. Your daughter is suffering from severe malnutrition. This fainting episode was the result of long-term nutrient deficiency that led to anemia, compounded by strenuous exercise. Her body just couldn’t take it anymore.”

“Malnutrition?” Mom sneered. “What a ridiculous excuse to scam money out of patients. Her diet plan was scientifically customized to maintain her ideal body shape. How do you expect to stay beautiful without effort? Look at her—look how perfect her figure is!”

Before I could react, she started tugging at my clothes.

I froze in shock, too stunned to resist.

She was actually trying to undress me in front of everyone.

“Look at her!” she shouted. “Do any of you junk-food eaters have a body like this?”

The mother of the little girl in the next bed finally couldn’t stand it anymore. “Mrs. White, that’s your daughter! How can you treat her like this?”

She rushed over to pull Mom away, and the doctor hurried to cover me with a blanket.

A wave of helplessness washed over me, freezing me from the inside out. How could Mom degrade me like that in front of everyone?

“Mom, please stop,” I whispered, tugging timidly at her sleeve.

She slapped my hand away. “You little brat. Don’t think I don’t know what’s going through your head. You just want to eat junk food, don’t you? Haven’t you eaten enough? Are you really that greedy?”

Her fury built like a storm. The next moment, her hand came down across my face. My cheek burned and swelled instantly.

Tears slipped silently down my face as I watched her pull up something on her tablet.

I stiffened. Then, suddenly, I couldn’t feel anything at all.

Turning to the worried woman by the next bed, I forced a perfect smile. “Please don’t worry. Mom only does this for my own good.”

Then, I looked back at Mom. “I’m sorry, Mom. I was being difficult earlier.”

Mom studied my swollen face, and a flicker of something like guilt flashed in her eyes. Her tone softened, as if the woman who had just lost control wasn’t her.

“As long as you understand that I’m doing this for you, that’s what matters. Once you finish your IV, I’ll take you to school,” she said.

…

That afternoon, I returned to school. I had barely set foot on the stairwell when a group of classmates surrounded me.

“So, it was you,” one of them said coldly. “You’re the one who gave Cocoa that chocolate. He fell ill because of you.”

She thrust her phone toward me. On the screen was a picture of a small dog lying weak on the ground.

At the sight of Cocoa, my voice shook uncontrollably. “I only gave him lactose-free milk.”

When they shoved me hard against the wall, pain shot up my spine. Someone grabbed my collar, yanking me upright before their fist slammed into my chest.

A muffled sound escaped my throat, and tears spilled down my cheeks before I could stop them.

"You're always so cold, like a walking corpse. Everyone's upset, and you're still standing here smiling?" another said.

I wanted to tell them I wasn't smiling on purpose—that I didn't want to be someone incapable of showing sadness—but Mom's control left me no choice. All that appeared on my face was that hollow, mechanical smile.

I tried to shrink into the corner, but they dragged me back out, slamming my face against the wall until the skin scraped raw. A sharp sting burned across my cheek.

"Are you still trying to hide? You did it on purpose, didn't you? The whole school knows you're the one who bully that dog."

…

By the time evening came, my homeroom teacher, Aaron Throne, walked me home and briefly explained the situation to Mom.

The moment she saw my face, Mom exploded.

"Why do you always have to cause trouble? Did you feed that dog something you shouldn't have? Otherwise, why would your classmates accuse only you? You will apologize to them tomorrow. I want this matter resolved before you bring me any more shame."

I looked up at her, stunned. "I didn't do anything wrong. Why should I apologize?"

Mom snapped, "Does it matter who's right or wrong? Why do you think they're picking on you instead of someone else? Don't you dare claim you're innocent. I've worked tirelessly to maintain your skin and your looks, and you have no idea how much effort I've put into you.

"Did I say you could get hurt? Stay on your knees until you've reflected on your mistake. You're also not eating dinner until then."

Suddenly, my knees gave out, and I collapsed onto the floor as if something unseen had forced me down. My fingers clutched the seams of my pants, whitening with tension.

"Mom, I never wanted to be perfect," I thought bitterly.

…

"Hey, what are you wearing for the class party tomorrow, Elsa?" Myra Lincoln, my classmate, asked as we walked home from school.

I gave a weary smile. "Probably my gym uniform. It's the only thing I have."

"Oh, come on, that's so dull. Come here," she said, catching my wrist and pulling me toward a shop window.

Pointing excitedly at a soft, cream-colored dress on display, she added, "Look at this—you'd look beautiful in it."

I shook my head. "I've never worn a dress before. Mom says students should only focus on studying, so she chooses all my clothes for me."

"Students should look confident and full of life," Myra corrected me with a grin. "Besides, wearing something you love can actually lift your mood. When you feel good, you'd focus better.

"Trust me—wear this to the party, and everyone will see a different side of you."

Her words stayed with me long after. For almost 18 years, Mom had dictated every part of my life—from the amount of water I was allowed to drink to the school I was told to attend.

So, for the first time, I decided for myself—I bought the dress.

…

The party arrived sooner than I expected. For the first time, I felt light and truly alive.

The room was filled with laughter and music, and for a fleeting moment, I belonged.

And then, in the middle of it all, Mom appeared at the door. My heart froze, and I shot to my feet in panic.

"What on earth are you doing?" she snapped. "What is that outfit? And what's that nonsense on your lips?"

"Mom, it's just for the party…"

Before I could finish, she slapped me across the face.

"How dare you? I spent everything I had to make you perfect, and this is how you repay me? Running around with your little friends, wearing that ridiculous dress, embarrassing me in public like this?"

Mom yanked at my dress as she scolded me, as if wearing it were something shameful, something indecent.

The sting on my cheek spread all the way to my chest, burning deep. "Mom, they're my best friends," I pleaded. "Please stop."

Her anger flared. "You used to listen to me. You did whatever I said without question. However, ever since you started hanging around with them, you've learned to argue and lie to me.

"Tell me, how can a bunch of useless nobodies like them be called friends?"

I closed my eyes, my breath trembling as anger and humiliation clawed at my chest. The pressure caved in on me with such force that it almost suffocated me. Just as I was about to fight back, my body froze.

Maybe my emotions had spiked too high and triggered the microchip. Suddenly, all my sadness and anger vanished, leaving only a crushing emptiness. For a moment, it felt like resisting no longer had any meaning.

I couldn't remember how I got home that night.

…

After the party came finals week, and Mr. Thorne announced a parent-teacher conference.

Chris Sawyer, another classmate, and Myra called out to me mysteriously after class. "Elsa, come here. We got you something. You've seemed down lately."

He smiled as he pulled a hair clip from his pocket. "Let me put it on for you."

However, before he could reach me, Mom suddenly appeared out of nowhere. She shoved him hard. "What do you think you're doing? It's you, isn't it? You're the one corrupting my daughter! Haven't you ever been taught about proper boundaries between boys and girls? This is disgraceful!"

Then, she began hitting him repeatedly.

Mr. Thorne quickly stepped in, seizing her arm. "Mrs. White, please! This is a school. Don't humiliate Elsa in front of everyone."

"Humiliate her? She's already doing that herself!" Mom snapped, waving the hair clip wildly. "She's practically dating him. Can't you see?"

She then pulled out my diary and shoved it at Mr. Thorne, even beginning to read aloud in front of the entire class. "Read this! 'He stood up for me today, and he even spoke to me first.'"

A wave of shame washed over me, and my hands trembled. "Mom, that's my diary. It's my privacy."

Mom glared at me. "I'm your mother. I gave birth to you, raised you, and you're talking to me about privacy?"

"Mrs. White," Mr. Thorne insisted. "Education requires understanding. Children need their space and privacy too."

Mom snapped, "If that's your idea of teaching, then we need to have a serious talk. Elsa's been lying, dating behind my back, and her grades are slipping. Is this what you call good education?"

She grabbed at Mr. Thorne's sleeve, shouting, "You're not fit to be a teacher! Come with me to the principal's office right now. You should be suspended before you ruin any more students!"

The commotion drew the attention of our year's assistant principal, Anna Whitaker, who hurried over to see what was happening.

Mom yanked me forward. "Elsa, tell Ms. Whitaker what kind of teacher Mr. Thorne is. Tell her he lets you mess around with boys and doesn't even care that your grades are slipping."

I opened my mouth to speak, but Mom pressed something on her phone.

Suddenly, the world went white. My vision blurred, and pain exploded behind my eyes.

I stared blankly at the people surrounding me, unable to grasp what was happening.

Suddenly, fragments of memories flooded my mind—Mr. Thorne's cold stares when my grades slipped, and the mocking I faced whenever I got close to the boys in our class.

Thinking of all this, the words slipped out before I could stop them. "Yes, Mom."

She raised a brow. "See? A teacher like this should be suspended. I expect you to explain this today."