Chapter 3

"What is that smell on you?"

The next morning, the moment I stepped out of the bathroom, my mother blocked my path in the hallway, leaning in to sniff me.

My heart skipped a beat. "What smell?"

"It smells fishy." She stared at me, her eyes scanning me from head to toe like a security sensor.

"Did you eat seafood last night?"

Even though the scent of the seafood feast was 90% covered by my body wash, she had actually smelled it.

"No, it must be—"

"You're lying."

Her tone didn't rise; instead, it dropped a dangerous octave.

"Maria, did you sneak out to eat seafood behind my back?"

"Mom, my checkup yesterday proved that I'm not allergic—"

"Not allergic?" She suddenly grabbed my wrist in a tight grip.

"When you were five years old, you almost died in the ER! Did you forget?"

"Your eyes were swollen shut, your entire body was covered in hives, and you had to wear an oxygen mask all night! And you're telling me you're not allergic?"

I remembered that ER visit.

But what I wanted to know now was—was that really because of seafood, or was it because of her medicine?

"I'm perfectly fine now. Nothing happened."

"Just because you're fine now doesn't mean you'll be fine later!" She let go of me and stormed into the kitchen.

I heard the heavy lid of the clay pot slam open.

She emerged with a bowl of the dark medicine, the black liquid sloshing dangerously close to the rim.

"Drink it."

"I said no."

"You ate seafood last night. If you don't drink this, the toxins won't leave your body. Do you want to wait until you can't breathe and have to be rushed to the ER again?"

"Mom—"

"Maria!"

Her sharp cry made Marcus look up from his game in the living room.

My mother stood before me, holding the bowl, her eyes welling with tears.

Her lips trembled, and her jaw was tense.

And then, she started crying.

"Do you have any idea how terrified I was when you were hospitalized as a kid? I sat in that hospital hallway all night, I didn't even realize I had lost my shoes."

"Now that you're grown up, you think you don't have to listen to me? Am I trying to hurt you? I am your mother!"

Tears streamed down her face.

Marcus got up from the couch, walked over to stand behind her, and glared at me.

"Maria, what is wrong with you? Can't you see Mom is crying? Is it really that hard to just drink a bowl of medicine?"

"You don't understand, Marcus."

"What is there to understand? All I know is that Mom has spent her life worrying about your health, and you think you can just say 'I'm not drinking it' and be done with it?"

"Don't you know how fragile your body is?"

He turned to our mother, his voice softening. "Mom, stop crying. I'll talk to her."

Then he looked back at me, his face filled with genuine confusion and disapproval.

He couldn't comprehend why a daughter, who had been fed medicine and cared for by her mother for twenty years, would suddenly reject that love.

Because he didn't know. He never had to know.

The King Crab on his plate didn't need an explanation, and the plain pasta on mine didn't either.

Everything in this house was allocated based on one single rule: "Maria is allergic."

"Maria, just drink it. Stop making a scene."

My mother pushed the bowl a step closer to me.

The bitter stench hit my nose, and my stomach began to churn again.

Twenty years of conditioned reflexes remained loyal. Even though my brain knew the truth, my body was still terrified.

"Mom, I really—"

"You 'really' what? 'Really' not allergic? Then explain to me, when you sneaked a bite of mango last year and your lips swelled up like a balloon, whose fault was that?"

"Or two years ago, when you touched a piece of beef jerky and got rashes all over your hands, whose fault was that?"

Last year. Two years ago.

Every single rash, every single swelling—was it really an allergy, or was it the masterpiece of this medicine? I couldn't tell anymore.

She was too good at this. She had used twenty years of lived experiences to build an airtight cage around me.

If I said "I'm not allergic," she could bring up a hundred pieces of evidence to prove me wrong.

Those "evidences" were real—I really had swollen up, vomited, and ended up bedridden.

Except the culprit was never the food. It was the bowl of medicine in her hands.

But I didn't have solid, irrefutable proof yet.

The preliminary analysis of the medicine residue was in my pocket, but the pharmacist hadn't given me an official medical document.

If I flipped the table now, she would have plenty of time to destroy everything hidden in her cabinet.

I looked at the bowl, then reached out and took it.

My mother's tears instantly receded, and the corners of her mouth relaxed slightly.

I brought the bowl to my lips. The moment the dark liquid touched my mouth, the bitter taste hit my tongue, and a wave of nausea surged from my stomach.

I looked up at her.

She was watching me drink, her face wearing the same gentle expression she had on any ordinary night.

I slammed the bowl down.

The dark medicine splashed onto the coffee table, seeping into the cracks and staining the wood dark.

"I'm not drinking it."

She froze. Marcus froze.

The living room fell into a dead silence for five seconds.

The only sound in those five seconds was the slow drip of the dark liquid falling from the edge of the table to the hardwood floor. Drip. Drip.

My mother stared at the dark puddle. The emotion flashing in her eyes wasn't anger.

It was panic. But she suppressed it quickly.

She bent down, grabbed a rag, and began wiping the spill. Her voice was strangely light.

"Fine. If you don't want to drink it, don't. We'll talk about it tomorrow."

She finished wiping, stood up, and walked to the kitchen door. Then she paused and looked back at me.

Her smile was still there, but her eyes had completely changed.

"Maria, have you been under too much pressure lately? Your mental state seems a bit off."

"If you have something on your mind, you can talk to me. Don't keep it bottled up. And don't listen to random strangers outside, okay?"

She turned and left.

Marcus sat back on the couch, muttering under his breath, "Psycho."

I didn't know if he was talking about me or the situation.

I went back to my room, only to find that the lock on my door had been changed.

It was one of those old-fashioned knob locks that could only be locked from the outside. I couldn't lock it from the inside anymore.

In an instant, I realized: she was keeping me locked in.

My phone buzzed. It was a message from my mother on Snapchat.

I opened it. Her voice message sounded as sweet as a lullaby.

"Maria, I know you've been stressed lately. Maybe the checkup put too much pressure on you."

"I'll take you to the hospital tomorrow to get you checked out. Dr. Coleman is an old friend of mine. He's much more reliable than those doctors outside."

"Please stop doing these crazy things on your own, okay? Be a good girl."