Chapter 4

"Maria, your mom told me you threw a tantrum yesterday?"

My dad’s face appeared on the FaceTime screen.

The wind from the construction site blew dust onto his hard hat, which he wiped away with his sleeve. He frowned at me.

My mother was sitting right next to me.

She hadn't just sat down by chance.

The very second I dialed the call, she had walked out of the kitchen with a plate of fruit and naturally sat down beside me—so naturally that it felt rehearsed.

"Dad, I had my allergens tested during my checkup."

"Your mom told me about that."

He cut me off, speaking rapidly as if he were trying to meet a construction deadline.

"What do you mean, you're not allergic to anything? Do you actually believe those cheap, mass-produced tests?"

"When you were a kid, you almost choked to death in the ER. I had to drive all night from the project site just to sign your surgery consent form—was that fake?"

"That wasn't an allergy, Dad. It was—"

"That's enough," he waved his hand dismissively.

"Don't I know what kind of person your mother is? She pinches pennies just to brew your medicine, watches your diet, and cooks separate meals for you. Stop being so dramatic."

My mother let out a soft sigh beside me, just loud enough for the phone's microphone to pick up.

"I don't blame her, David. She's twenty now; she has her own ideas."

"I'm just worried she's met some bad people outside who are taking advantage of her."

She glanced at me. It wasn't the look of a worried, loving mother. It was a warning:

If you dare tell your father about the medicine, just see what happens.

"Dad, can you come home for a bit?"

"Are you kidding? The site is right in the middle of a major phase. How can I just leave? Your mother is right there with you anyway."

"I want to talk to you. Alone."

"What is there to talk about alone? Your mother is right there, just say it. What secrets are you keeping from your own family?"

My mother took over the conversation, patting the back of my hand, and gave a tight, bitter smile to the camera.

"David, don't yell at her. She's probably just stressed about her new job. I'll take her to see a doctor and get her sorted out."

The call ended. In the afternoon, my Aunt Bella showed up. No one had warned me.

When she appeared in the living room, I was in my room searching for independent medical testing laboratories.

"Maria, come out and sit with us," my mother's voice called out from the hallway.

I walked out. Bella was sitting on the couch peeling oranges, a pile of peels already stacked on her plate. She had clearly been here for a while.

"Oh, Maria," she pulled me down to sit beside her, patting my hand.

"Your mom called me. She said you haven't been very obedient lately."

"Bella, there's something—"

"Let me finish first. Do you have any idea how hard your mother has worked all these years?"

"During all those years of your allergies, she got up in the middle of the night to brew medicine, cooked special meals, and took you to see doctors. Do you think that didn't take an emotional toll on her?"

Every single word she said was a carbon copy of my mother's usual guilt trips, copy-pasted into a relative's mouth.

"If you really aren't allergic anymore, isn't that great? It means your mom's medicine worked! Why are you still picking fights with her?"

"I'm not picking fights—"

"Then why did you make your mother cry? When she called me this morning, her voice was completely hoarse."

I looked at my mother. She was sitting nearby peeling an apple, her face a perfect picture of quiet hurt and long-suffering endurance.

"Maria," Bella lowered her voice, leaning in closer.

"Your mom asked me to check if you've been watching some sketchy influencers online who are tricking you into doing these tests just to sell you products. There are so many of those scammers nowadays."

I opened my mouth, then closed it.

It wasn't that I didn't want to speak. It was that speaking was completely useless.

This web was too vast—she had spent twenty years weaving an airtight narrative, and all our relatives were both the audience and the messengers of her story.

If I rushed in waving a lab report and screaming "She's lying," I would only be treated as a lunatic.

"I understand, Bella."

"Good girl. Go apologize to your mom, okay? We're family, after all."

After she left, I opened my phone and searched for my mother's YouTube channel.

Bella had mentioned her YouTube account before, but I hadn't paid attention to it at the time.

I found it. Her profile picture was a silhouette of her in the kitchen, her apron neatly tied.

The channel name: Allergy Mom’s Journey.

Subscribers: 114,000.

I clicked on it.

The video list was endless.

The earliest video was uploaded three years ago, titled: "When your child is allergic to everything, a mother has to find a way."

I scrolled down, video by video.

"Allergy-Friendly Lunchbox Ep. 52 | My Eldest Daughter’s Special Meal"

"Brother Eats Lobster vs. Sister Eats Plain Potatoes | A Mother’s Heart Breaks"

"Brewing the Healing Soup for 3 Hours, Hoping My Daughter Cures Her Allergies Soon"

Every video had tens of thousands, sometimes hundreds of thousands of views. The comment section was filled with pure adoration.

"You are the most incredible mother on the internet."

"Even though the daughter can't eat normal food, she is so blessed to have a mother like you."

"This made me cry. A mother’s love is truly selfless."

I counted. Two hundred and forty-seven videos.

In every single one, she stood before the stove, gently stirring a pot of soup, her face carrying that perfect touch of melancholic maternal worry.

Worrying about her daughter’s fragile health, aching because her daughter couldn't enjoy good food.

Over a hundred thousand people watched her performance of maternal devotion. Not a single soul knew what was actually hidden at the bottom of that pot.

I shut off my phone.

The room was completely silent. The changed lock on my door couldn't be locked from the inside; the slightest breeze would push it open a crack.

My phone buzzed. My mother had just posted a message in our family Snapchat group.

"Please don't listen to Maria's wild stories, everyone. The poor child is just under a lot of pressure at work, and she's getting a bit paranoid."

"I'm taking her to see a doctor to get her back on track. She'll be fine in a couple of days."

An instant flood of replies expressing "sympathy for Susan" filled the chat.

My Uncle John replied:

"Maria has always been a good kid. She's probably just exhausted. Don't worry too much, Susan."

My mother replied: "I can't help but worry. She's my daughter, after all. As a mother, I'd do absolutely anything for her."

I stared at that sentence: 'I'd do absolutely anything for her.'

Including poisoning me for fifteen years.

I closed the app and stuffed the phone under my pillow.

There was a water stain on my ceiling shaped like a bowl. I stared at it for a long, long time.

From outside, my mother's laughter drifted in—she was talking to Marcus in the living room.

Marcus mumbled in response, followed by the clatter of a spatula hitting the pan.

"Marcus, you're having the prime rib with lobster tail tonight. I added a soft-boiled egg for you."

"Maria's pasta is warming in the pot. Call her out in a bit."

Separated by a single wall.

He ate lobster; I ate plain pasta.

Her YouTube channel was currently uploading its 248th episode of Allergy Mom's Journey.

And I couldn't even lock my own bedroom door.