My Mom's Crazy Rules, My Ultimate Payback.

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.

My first strange rebellious thought came on the night Brenda's water broke. She screamed so loudly it woke me from my sleep.

She told me to call an ambulance, but I paused.

I turned and picked up the house rules hanging on the wall, flipping to the third page.

"But Mom, the house rules say I can't touch a phone without submitting a request beforehand."

The consequences of breaking the rules were too severe. I couldn't even imagine, and I was terrified of being whipped and forced to kneel again.

I hated the pain.

Brenda clutched her stomach, not speaking.

I figured she must have implicitly agreed to the rules.

"Mom, wait for me. I'll go write the report right now."

I put down the rules, pulled a blank sheet of paper from the drawer, and started drafting:

[Application for Phone Use]

As soon as I wrote those seven words, I crumpled the paper and threw it away.

The words weren't centered.

The second time, my handwriting wasn't neat enough.

Brenda said the font for reports had to be perfectly neat, or she'd hit my palms. So I tore it up and rewrote it.

The third time, I finished the whole thing, but the format at the end wasn't quite right...

"Enough!"

Brenda, with her last bit of strength, stopped me from tearing up that application. "Hand it over! I'll sign it!"

I nodded, taking tiny steps to Brenda's side, and handed her the application.

Just as she was about to sign, I pulled the pen from her hand.

"Mom, the house rules specify that only a fountain pen can be used for signatures."

For my eighth-grade final exams, I needed to arrive early at school, so I wrote an application for early departure the day before, and Brenda signed it.

But at the time, she claimed the pen wasn't up to standard, hitting me for half an hour and forcing me to write a confession for two hours.

By the time she finally agreed to let me leave, the morning exams were already over.

I was so sure I could have gotten first place, but because I missed the exam, I ended up in the bottom ten of my class.

She wasn't happy about it.

"Kevin, Mrs. Smith's son, got second place, so how did you, this good-for-nothing, end up at the bottom?!"

She beat me from our house all the way downstairs to the apartment complex. Whenever someone tried to intervene, she'd change her story. "This brat stole my money to go on a date with a guy, shouldn't I hit her?!"

But I hadn't.

I watched Brenda in excruciating pain and slowly said, "I'll go get it from your room."

"But Mom said I'm not allowed to go into your room without permission, so just wait a little longer. I'll just write another application to enter the room."

Brenda told me to bring the house rules over, and she tore them to shreds. "Call!"

Brenda gave birth to another daughter, Chloe, which meant an extra job for me.

The shredded house rules were meticulously taped back together, with a few new additions.

The last one read: [These house rules apply only to the eldest daughter, Lily. Chloe is exempt.]

My high school was boarding, but Brenda insisted I become a day student.

She'd rather have me bike home at ten every night after evening study than let me miss cleaning up their dinner forks.

"Why are you using water without an application?!"

Along with Brenda's curses, the whip in her hand landed on me, instantly tearing open my skin on my back and drawing blood.

I explained, "Chloe peed on the floor, and I just got some water to clean it up."

The still-damp mop was even sitting nearby.

Hearing this, Brenda grabbed the mop, pressed the wet, urine-stained mop head to my face, and forcefully shoved me against the wall, making it hard for me to breathe.

The moment I could breathe again, I looked at my six-year-old sister, Chloe.

She gave me a smile identical to Brenda's.

From childhood, Brenda had always been hands-off with my studies.

She didn't care about my grades. Even if I wrote applications that perfectly met her requirements, she wouldn't give me money for workbooks, let alone any tutoring.

Despite this, I was still in the top ten by my senior year.

When the college entrance exam results came out, I was still in the bathroom washing Brenda's clothes. When I learned my score far exceeded expectations, I instantly burst into tears of joy.

I thought Brenda would be happy for me, but she coldly slapped me. "No report, who gave you permission to smile?"

My scores were good enough for any top university in the country. Calls from prestigious universities, like Harvard and Yale, came in several times, but Brenda ignored them all. So I chose my own schools and filled out my own applications.

But the result was

"The third-highest in the school and seventeenth in the city was accepted into a vocational school."

"I heard the vocational school not only waives all tuition but also offered a forty-thousand-dollar scholarship."

"With such good grades, she should have been a top student at Harvard, is it really worth going to a vocational school just for the money?"

I only learned about my vocational school admission from others.

Because Brenda wouldn't allow me to use electronic devices, she arranged an incredibly busy summer job for me, leaving me no time to check my application information, giving her the opportunity to change it without my knowledge.

I lost my temper with Brenda for the first time.

"How dare you change my university choices? That will ruin my whole life!"

"A whole life, my ass! What good is a degree now?!" Brenda kicked me and rolled her eyes. "I raised you for all these years, that forty thousand dollars is rightfully mine. Don't think you can change your fate through studying, it won't work with me."

"Go to vocational school, and I've already arranged your marriage after you graduate."

"Later, you'll work hard to earn money and support the family. Chloe still needs you to buy her a house and a car. I don't want Chloe to be weak and useless like you, it's just sickening to watch."

I stormed out.

Brenda's words echoed in my ears. She had raised me for eighteen years, given me life but never an ounce of care.

We were both daughters, but I was just a tool for her to exchange for benefits, while Chloe was her cherished darling.

Was I going to let them exploit me for the rest of my life?

Thinking these thoughts, I unconsciously walked onto a bridge with endless traffic. Reaching the edge, I stood on tiptoes and peered down at the rushing river below.

Maybe I should just jump and end it all.

No!

The thought of suicide was quickly dismissed, replaced by another idea.