Chapter 3

Ever since I started elementary school, Mom quit her decent editing job at the newspaper and became a cashier at a supermarket near the school.

Editing required long hours, from eight to six, and was very demanding, making it hard to focus on anything else. As a cashier, she only had to work six-hour shifts, giving her more time to be around the school and "supervise" my studies.

I wrote that essay for three whole days. When I first wrote it, Mom wasn't happy.

So she sat beside me, watching me rewrite it.

Perhaps due to her background as an editor, the grammatical errors and inappropriate similes in my essay infuriated Mom. She snatched the pen from my hand, correcting it while scolding me in my ear.

“Why are you so stupid, don’t you have a brain? Can’t you just make things easier for Mom and give her less to worry about?!”

If I accidentally made a mistake, she would immediately hit the back of my hand hard.

She never used any tools to hit me. Mom said it was her way of sharing the pain with me, so I would remember and correct my mistakes.

If I made too many mistakes, Mom would suddenly hit her own face, slapping herself.

“Don’t you feel bad for Mom? Otherwise, why aren’t you studying properly?!”

“I do, I feel bad for Mom, Mom, please stop hitting yourself!”

As soon as I cried, Mom would rush into the kitchen, grab a kitchen knife, hold it to her wrist, and yell at me.

“Mom is trying so hard to teach you, even hitting herself like this, why do you still make mistakes? Are you not even trying to study? Are you trying to kill Mom?!”

In the end, Mom practically wrote two-thirds of the essay herself.

No one noticed how mature the vocabulary and sentence structure were, far beyond what a first grader could write.

I wasn’t good at writing at all. The one who was good at writing was Mom, the former editor.

To me.

Mom was the woman holding a knife.

…

As the years passed, people gradually forgot about the milk incident.

But because Mom was always at school, whenever I got close to a classmate and she saw it, she would immediately interrogate them about their family background and grades, insisting on chatting with us.

During these chats, Mom couldn’t talk about anything but me.

“Hey, don’t pat Alex’s shoulder, he has homework tonight. What if you hurt him?”

“Did you just sneeze? Are you catching a cold? Don’t sneeze towards Alex, that’s intentionally trying to infect him. If Alex gets sick, I’ll have to talk to your parents tomorrow!”

Seeing a classmate from a less privileged family with some dirt under their fingernails, Mom frowned and said in front of them.

“Alex, be careful who you make friends with. Some people just carry that ‘poor’ vibe, and you need to keep your distance. Those people won’t amount to anything later, you’re different from them.”

At ten years old, kids already have self-respect. The classmate’s face turned bright red, and they quietly tucked their hands into their sleeves.

Then, they grabbed their backpack, hastily said, “Ma’am, I have to go,” and ran off without looking back.

Throughout elementary school, I didn't have many friends, but Mom was very happy, because then no one would lead her precious son astray.

Whenever I watched classmates walking arm-in-arm with envy, Mom would pull me forward.

She pursed her lips. “What kind of friendship do kids have? Once you move up a grade, you’ll never see them again. Your main goal right now is to study, not make friends.”

“Besides, you can tell Mom anything, Mom is your best friend.”

I looked at Mom, saying nothing, and wrote all my teenage worries in my diary, painstakingly getting through six years of elementary school.

In junior high, during the second semester of eighth grade, a transfer student joined our class.

Because our school had a special fast-track admission program for prestigious high schools before the state-wide middle school exams each year, good students could get into the gifted class. So, during this critical period before the exams, transfer students from other areas would often come, hoping for a better opportunity.

The transfer student had excellent grades. When the teacher assigned seats based on grades, she specifically told her to sit next to me.

“Hi there, I’m Sarah.” The girl smiled and pulled out the chair next to me. “Where did you go this summer? My parents and I went to Macau, their Portuguese tarts were especially delicious. Here, try one!”

Sarah was friendly with everyone. She took out a box of tarts from her backpack and shared them with the classmates around her.

I quietly read my book, and she didn’t disturb me, instead quietly placing the last tart on the corner of my desk.

Even so, Mom, who was peering in to check on us, noticed it.

There was no teacher in the classroom, so she rushed over to us and loudly told Sarah: “Hey, kid! My Alex has a sensitive stomach and can’t eat unsanitary food from outside. Don’t make him get diarrhea!”

I hunched my head even lower.

But to my surprise, Sarah showed no embarrassment or fear. Instead, she smiled at my mom and said.

“Don’t worry, Ma’am, I washed my hands, they’re not dirty. Plus, these are from an old, famous shop in Macau! My mom and I waited in line for a long time to get them.”

Mom froze, as if she hadn’t expected a child to respond to her harshness so gracefully.

She was silent for a few seconds, then her voice grew shriller.

“Your parents work hard to earn money and take you out to see the world, and all you know is to show off to your classmates. You don’t think about how to study hard to repay your parents’ kindness, you don’t understand their good intentions, you don’t appreciate how hard they work for money!”

“I will absolutely not let my son sit next to a child like you. You’ll lead my son astray!”