Chapter 5

"What did you put in his bottle?!"

She snatched the glass from my hand, sniffed it, and slammed it onto the floor. Shards of glass shattered everywhere, slicing my ankles.

"I was just getting water for myself!"

"Liar! You want to poison my son! I know you hate him!" She grabbed me by my hair, dragging me out into the living room.

A white-hot, ripping pain shot through my scalp, and I screamed.

My dad rushed out of the bedroom. "Eleanor! Let go of her!"

But she didn't hear him. She raised her foot and kicked me violently in the stomach.

I curled into a ball on the floor, the agonizing pain knocking the breath right out of my lungs.

Finally, my dad stepped in, grabbing her arms to pull her off me.

"She's a demon! She wants to murder my baby!" she shrieked, tears streaming down her face.

With great effort, my dad dragged her back into the master bedroom and locked the door.

I lay on the cold floor, my stomach cramping violently, the metallic taste of blood pooling in my mouth.

The harsh ceiling light overhead was blinding. I closed my eyes, letting the tears slide silently down my face.

I don't know how much time passed before the bedroom door finally opened.

My mom walked out, her steps shaky and uneven.

She fell to her knees beside me, her trembling hands hovering over my bruised face. "Chloe... my sweet Chloe... Oh my god, what did I do to you?"

Seeing the blood on my lip, she broke down, sobbing hysterically as she pulled me into her chest. "I'm a monster! I'm so sorry! Hit me back, please, just hit me back!"

I shook my head, too weak to speak.

That night, she insisted on applying ointment to my wounds.

When she pulled up my shirt and saw the massive, dark purple bruises covering my stomach, she gasped, her hands shaking so violently she could barely hold the tube.

I found myself comforting her instead. "It’s okay, Mom. It’ll heal. You're just sick."

She looked up at me, her eyes filled with a bizarre mixture of guilt, pain, and something else—something cold and calculating that I didn't understand at the time.

"Yes," she whispered softly. "Mommy will get better."

But the illusion shattered completely on a stormy night a few weeks later.

I woke up in the middle of the night from a sharp, throbbing pain in my stomach. My mother had kicked me hard earlier that afternoon.

I got out of bed to find some Advil in the kitchen. As I passed my parents' bedroom, I heard hushed voices coming from inside.

The door was cracked open, letting out a sliver of yellow light.

Instinctively, I stopped in my tracks.

"How much longer are you going to keep doing this, Eleanor?" my dad's voice asked, sounding incredibly weary.

"Chloe is covered in bruises. Her school counselor called me again yesterday. I barely managed to lie my way out of it."

My heart squeezed. I leaned against the drywall, holding my breath.

"Hmph. If we don’t break her spirit now and train her to be Mason’s obedient servant, she’ll run wild when she grows up. We won't be able to control her," my mom’s voice replied. It was completely steady, cool, and logical.

She sounded like she was discussing a household budget, not the systematic abuse of her own daughter.

"But she's only fourteen, Eleanor. Look at the marks on her back," my dad muttered, a hint of hesitation in his voice.

"Skin heals! Breaking her spirit is what matters!" my mom snapped, her tone turning sharp.

"Are you turning soft now, David? Think about why we did this in the first place! Think about Mason's future! He is going to need someone who will dedicate her life to taking care of him. If Chloe suffers a little bit now, she'll know her place. Or do you want her to grow up like one of those spoiled, selfish only-children who would never lift a finger to help her brother?"

"That's not what I meant. We raised Chloe from a baby..."

"Then what do you mean? The doctors said postpartum amnesia rarely lasts more than a year. Do you know how exhausting it is for me to pretend to be crazy every single day? If it weren't to completely crush her defiance, do you think I'd be putting on this ridiculous show?"

*A show.*

The word felt like a poisoned dagger plunging straight into my chest.

"The school is getting suspicious," my dad sighed. "The counselor is going to call CPS eventually."

"Let them. Once she's completely broken, she'll realize that fighting back is useless. Even if I 'recover' from my illness, it won't matter. In fact, she'll probably be grateful that I'm nice to her again. Abuse breeds loyalty."

My entire world collapsed right then and there.

I clutched the wall, my knees shaking so violently I could barely stand.

I dragged myself back to my room on silent feet, locked the door, and buried my face in my pillow, weeping silently until my throat was raw.

That night, for the first time in my life, I wanted to die.

If living meant being tortured and manipulated by the people who were supposed to love me most, what was the point?

But I didn't end it.

The next morning, my mother had another "episode."

During breakfast, she suddenly swiped her hand across the table, knocking my glass of milk onto the floor. It shattered into a million pieces.

"You're trying to poison my baby!" she shrieked, pointing at the spilled white liquid.

I sat there, staring at her coldly. I didn't try to explain. I didn't cry. I just watched her perform.

My dad stepped in right on cue. "Chloe, clean this up quickly. Your mother didn't mean it."

"Oh, I absolutely meant it!" My mom stood up, towering over me. "I'm telling you, stay away from my son!"

She raised her hand. This time, I didn't flinch or look away.

As her hand slapped my cheek, I stared directly into her eyes. And there, deep within her pupils, I caught a fleeting glimpse of satisfaction.

It was true. A mother’s love could be entirely fabricated.

"What are you looking at?!" She slapped me again, harder this time.

"Eleanor, that's enough," my dad said, pulling her back. "Chloe needs to get to school."

My mom scoffed and turned her back on me.

I silently grabbed my backpack and walked out of the house.

I didn't say a word to my classmates or my counselor.

On my way back from school, I stopped by a local grocery store. I used some spare change my dad had left on the counter to buy a bag of frozen peas to soothe my swollen cheek.

When I got home, Mason was sitting on the living room rug.

The front door was open, and he babbled happily when he saw me, reaching his chubby little hands toward the frozen bag.

He was starting to say a few words now. His eyes were so innocent, so pure. I looked around the empty apartment, and my heart softened.

Mason was innocent. He was just a baby.

I handed him the colorful bag, but his tiny hands couldn't grip it. It rolled under the heavy bookshelf.

He pointed his little finger. "Sissy, look! Ball!"

I gave him a soft, gentle smile.

As I bent down to retrieve the bag of peas, I noticed my dad's desk drawer was slightly ajar. Peeking out from inside was a photo frame that didn't belong to our family.

I pulled it out.

It was a family photo of my dad, my grandparents, and another woman—a beautiful, young woman I had never seen before.

A chilling thought flashed through my mind.

I looked at Mason, then back at the photo.

Mason didn't look like me. He didn't look like my mother, either. He looked exactly like my dad.

Furthermore, everyone in my family had thick, curly brown hair. Mason’s hair was pin-straight and jet-black.

I remembered when Mason was born and had to stay in the incubator for a few days. My mother had been asleep, and I had wandered over to the nurse’s station to ask a question.

I had caught a glimpse of Mason’s medical chart. His blood type was O.

I was young, but I knew basic biology. My parents were both AB. It was genetically impossible for them to have an O-type baby.

I held up the photo of the strange woman. Mason’s eyes lit up instantly.

He pointed his tiny finger at her face and babbled, "Mama!"

A loud alarm bell went off in my head.

Terrified by the dark truth looming before me, I grabbed my things and ran out of the house.