Refused to Play Victim — She Pushed Me

My mom, Laura Parker, was an online performance artist who carefully crafted an image of herself as a tragic single mother raising her daughter alone.

To maintain this image, she made me write a “Misery Journal” every day.

Falling down earned me 10 points, being bullied earned another 10, and catching a fever came with a “reward” of $20.

“Emily Parker, Mommy loves you. That’s why I want you to remember these hardships—so you can grow strong.”

I didn’t want to disappoint her, so I bruised myself daily just to see that satisfied smile on her face.

By the end of the year, my body was covered in wounds.

The day I was about to throw myself off the rooftop, something strange happened—a system appeared.

I skipped breakfast on purpose, leaving my stomach painfully empty.

Picking up my pen, I neatly wrote in the journal: “I’m starving again today. My stomach hurts. I really wish I could eat Mom’s cooking.”

Laura took the journal and nodded with satisfaction.

“Good.”

She flipped open that shabby notebook—the Suffering Scoreboard—and added 10 points next to my name.

“Once you reach 100 points, you’ll get $50 for this week’s allowance.”

Then she grabbed her phone, paired it with a tired-looking selfie after a sleepless night, and began typing out a Facebook post.

“My daughter’s stomach illness flared up again. As her mom, my heart aches so much I couldn’t sleep all night.”

Post sent.

Within five minutes, aunts and uncles replied with sympathetic emojis and Venmo transfers.

The numbers on her screen jumped, and her eyes lit up with excitement.

“Mom, I’m heading to class.”

……

No reply. Laura was always extra focused whenever money transfers came in.

On my way, I passed a breakfast café and saw my roommate Sophie Miller happily eating soy milk and fried dough sticks.

She spotted me and waved enthusiastically. “Emily! Come over and eat with me, I bought too much!”

Instinctively, I stepped back.

The surveillance camera on the window pointed right at me—Laura must be watching.

Any moment of happiness would get me penalized.

“N-no thanks, I’m not hungry.” I hurried away.

During class, the teacher praised me in front of everyone for scoring the highest on the assignment, even posting about me in the parents’ group chat.

My classmates looked at me with envy, but I hunched my shoulders, wishing I could crawl under the desk.

God forbid anyone saw I was happy.

Before the bell even rang, my phone buzzed.

Laura had sent me a voice message:

“Emily Parker, why do you look so happy? Did you forget how your father died? You ungrateful brat!”

My hands trembled.

I opened the photo of the Suffering Scoreboard—the 85 points I had painstakingly earned that week were all erased.

That night, back in the dorm, Sophie and the others had gone out for dinner. I sat alone on my bed, calculating that once again, I’d have no allowance for the week.

Rain drizzled outside.

Staring at the window, an idea came to me.

I rushed outside without an umbrella and stood in the rain for half an hour. Water soaked through my clothes, my hair plastered to my face, leaving me utterly pitiful.

When I returned home, shivering and drenched, Laura’s eyes lit up instantly.

But instead of handing me a towel, her first move was to grab her phone.

“Lower your head a little! Yes, that’s perfect—make your eyes look sadder!” she said, thrilled as she adjusted the angle. “This shot will definitely get Aunt Mary to send another $200!”

Click.

The perfect tragic photo.

Laura immediately typed out a new Facebook post:

“My daughter walked home in the rain to save money on bus fare. She’s sick with a fever now. As her mother, my heart aches, but we truly can’t afford medical bills…”

Post sent.

Almost instantly, my phone buzzed non-stop with payment notifications.