Chapter 1

Ever since my mom, Brenda, became single, she turned terrifyingly obsessive.

She envied her neighbor, Mrs. Henderson, who was a high-ranking executive at a big company, so Brenda started imposing strict rules at home, indulging her own power trip.

She demanded I submit a formal request and wait for her approval for everything I did.

One time, just because I yawned without raising my hand and yelling "Request!", she slapped me across the face.

When I had a high fever and was throwing up, she forced me to write a medical leave application, over and over again.

Eighteen years by her side left me with countless psychological scars.

But I also learned from her, developing my own twisted obsession with control.

Later, when she was so fed up she wanted to pull out her own IV to die, I held down her arm.

"Hold on."

"First, write an application."

When I was two, my dad, Robert, cheated.

The woman he was with, Sarah, was a self-made businesswoman. She wasn't particularly pretty, but she was loaded.

When they divorced, Sarah even offered Brenda twenty thousand dollars, saying it was her way of buying Robert.

Brenda was too proud to accept it. She threw the two stacks of cash right back at them on the spot. But two hours later, she started complaining about her unfortunate life, how she was utterly helpless without money.

She kicked me, and my small body stumbled backward, hitting a table, and I started to cry.

"What are you crying about?"

"Your dad ran off, this family is falling apart because of you! If it weren't for you, this dead weight, would I have to struggle like this?!"

From that day on, I became her sole punching bag.

I thought beatings were just a normal part of life, something I just had to endure. But then, when I was seven, a family moved in next door. They all dressed impeccably, left a trail of expensive perfume wherever they went, and always drove nice cars.

I heard Mrs. Henderson, the neighbor, was a senior executive at a big company, managing a whole team of employees.

Brenda's gaze was fixed on Mrs. Henderson as if drawn by a magnet. It was hard to tell if it was envy or resentment.

After that day, the air at home changed.

She found an old binder somewhere, wrote "Household Management Binder" on the cover, and hung it in the most visible spot in our living room.

Mimicking Mrs. Henderson's air of authority became the most important thing in her life.

And I was her only subordinate, the sole subject for her to practice these absurd rules on.

When I was ten, Brenda got a new boyfriend, Gary, but he left less than a year later, leaving behind my pregnant mom and me, forced to bear all the responsibility.

"It's all because of you, you dead weight, ruining my happiness!"

That day, she hung me upside down from the doorframe, lashing me with a whip, strike after strike.

The louder the pleas from outside, the harder she hit.

She said it was to teach me how to succeed.

She only stopped when Mrs. Henderson threatened to call the police on her.

But her blame towards me didn't lessen. Brenda threw down the whip, pulled out the house rules, and flung them at my face. "Rule number three: No crying without prior notification. Your crying just now exceeded 20 decibels. As per the rules, two months of your allowance are deducted."

So for those two months, I was the class beggar.

She was too busy gambling to cook for me or give me money for food. I could only scavenge leftovers from classmates to fill my stomach.

Some kids, as a cruel joke, mixed dirt and spit into their leftover food.

But I was too hungry. Even so, I swallowed it bite by bite.

When I was twelve, the school organized a field trip, and every student had to pay fifty dollars for the activity fee.

She made me submit a report beforehand.

Every night after finishing my homework, I'd start writing the application. Each one was eight thousand words, and I'd write it over and over, while she tore them up one after another.

It wasn't until the field trip bus had already left the city that she finally signed the application form.

Brenda, using the formal language she'd picked up from Mrs. Henderson, spoke stiffly:

"Next time, make sure the format is standard. Indent the first line by two characters, and include a concluding statement at the end."

Later, my homeroom teacher noticed I'd been wearing the same frayed school uniform for an entire semester. After hearing about my situation, she secretly slipped fifty dollars to my desk-mate, telling her to "find" the money and give it to me.

But when Brenda found out, she stormed into the school and made a huge scene, accusing the teacher of "inducing students to lie and undermining family rules." She caused a fuss over a dozen times, eventually forcing the school to transfer the teacher.

After that, the way all the teachers and students looked at me changed.

What I didn't realize then was that my own mindset had also subtly begun to shift.