Chapter 2

2

In my eyes, my father was kind, gentle, and handsome. He was tall, didn't smoke, and didn't drink.

My mother, on the other hand, was painfully ordinary. Aside from feeding her brothers' bottomless greed, she was addicted to gambling―and she lost every single time.

My father worked his fingers to the bone, but he could never fill the black hole that was my mother's gambling habit and her freeloading family.

He adored her so much that he let her believe she was better than everyone else, fueling her ego.

I don't know how long she stood there screaming, but eventually, I heard a door slam.

She had kicked my father out of their bedroom, refusing to even give him a blanket.

In the middle of the night, watching him shiver on the sofa, my heart hardened.

I draped my own quilt over him, and he whispered, "Elara, your mother just doesn't know how to express herself. Don't hold it against her."

My dear father, how could I explain what had happened in the life that was stolen from me?

How could I tell you that while you lay in a hospital bed, begging for a chance to live, she refused to give us a dime?

I had died trying to save you.

But don't worry, Dad. You'll see her true face soon enough.

Early the next morning, my mother headed out.

When she returned, she sat on the sofa like a queen and pointed at me. "Elara, your uncle found a shop he wants to rent. I need you to give me twenty thousand."

"No."

I refused.

"Your uncle already signed a contract! We need the cash today. Go to the bank, now!"

"No."

No matter how much she yelled, those were the only two words I gave her.

A hundred thousand was enough to make her and my uncles reveal their true selves.

"If you give me twenty thousand, you can still buy your house!"

"Fine. Have Uncle come here himself. I want a written IOU, with interest, and a guarantee he'll pay it back within a year. If he―"

Before I could finish, a vase came flying at my head.

Pain exploded across my forehead.

Hot, stinging blood began to trickle down my face.

My father jumped up, terrified. "Brenda! What are you doing?"

She shrieked like a banshee. "You two are despicable! I'm part of this family too, that money belongs to me! Give me my share!"

"If you want a share, we can divide the assets. Are you asking for a divorce?" I asked calmly.

She lunged at me like a demon, trying to claw my eyes out, but my father stepped in to block her.

Seeing the blood pooling on the floor, he finally looked heartbroken.

For the first time, he exploded in anger at her.

She stormed out, slamming the door, clearly unsatisfied.

I knew this was far from over.

She disappeared for a week. My father was frantic, trying to go to her parents' house to bring her home, but I did everything I could to stop him.

"Dad, this is just a tactic to make you surrender. If you just ignore her, she'll crawl back within the week."

I was right. Nana, cunning as a fox, knew they couldn't afford to lose my father's paycheck. She was the puppet master behind all of my mother's antics.

A week later, my mother returned.

But she wasn't back to be a wife. She was back to torture us until we handed over the money.

From that day on, she did nothing around the house. She spent her time throwing things, keeping the atmosphere suffocating.

I was unfazed, acting like she wasn't there, but my father was clearly suffering.

When the "silent treatment" didn't work, she changed strategies.

A few days later, she started setting an alarm for 3 a.m. every night.

Whenever I fell asleep, she would sit by my bed like a ghost, staring at me in total silence.

A few times, I woke up to find her eyes burning with malice.

The memory of being strangled made me prone to panic attacks, and those nights were a waking nightmare.

I couldn't comprehend how a mother could look at her own daughter with such visceral hatred.

After the first night, I started locking my door.

The next day, while I was at work, she destroyed the lock.

The third night, she sat in my room again. Even when I woke up, she wouldn't leave; she just kept staring, making it impossible for me to sleep.

She wanted to break me psychologically, to force my hand.

But I didn't break.

When she couldn't crack me, she turned her sights on my father.

Dad woke up at 7 a.m. for work.

She started waking him up at 5 a.m. every single day.

When he tried to sleep on the sofa, she would dump a bucket of ice water over him.

Sometimes, she threw away his clothes so he couldn't leave the house.

Other times, she'd hide his phone and turn off his alarm, trying to make him get fired for lateness.

Luckily, my father was a senior manager, so he had some leeway.

Beyond the mental abuse, she didn't spare us physically, either.

She started putting strange things in our food―too much salt, or even laundry detergent.

After my father ended up in the hospital with food poisoning, he refused to eat her cooking ever again.

From then on, we survived solely on takeout.

Seeing that we were prepared for a long war, my mother made her most diabolical move yet.

And this final act of malice was exactly what my father needed to see her true face.

My father was already at his limit.

He spent his days in the office, staying until midnight just to avoid her.

One night, he dragged himself home, exhausted, and pulled back the duvet on the sofa―only to be terrified out of his mind.