Chapter 5

"Have you had a history of taking highly toxic or severe cold herbal medications long-term?"

The OBGYN specialist moved the ultrasound transducer away from my abdomen. Her voice was professional and neutral, but the way she framed the question made my heart sink.

"Yes... for about fifteen years."

She took off her gloves, washed her hands thoroughly at the sink, and finally sat back down at her desk.

She opened the computer, brought up my scans, and remained silent for about ten seconds.

"Your endometrial lining is only 0.3 centimeters. The normal range is 0.8 to 1.4."

"Your ovarian reserve has severely depleted. Your AMH level is 0.4. For a healthy woman your age, it should be between 2 and 6."

She turned the monitor toward me, pointing at the black-and-white images labeled with cold, clinical numbers. It felt like a final judgment.

"Your ovarian function is currently close to that of a perimenopausal woman. The probability of natural conception is extremely low."

'Perimenopause.' A word that belonged to women over forty-five was now stamped onto the medical report of a twenty-year-old girl.

"Can it be cured?"

"We can try hormonal therapy and lifestyle adjustments, but the chance of recovering to normal levels—" She paused. "It’s very slim."

I took the medical report. The piece of paper felt incredibly light, yet too heavy to hold the weight of those words.

"Do you have any other questions?"

"No. Thank you."

When I walked out of the clinic, the sun was blindingly bright.

I sat on the steps outside the clinic, laying three documents out on my lap—the allergen report, the pharmacist's chemical analysis of the medicine, and the gynecological report.

Three pieces of paper. Twenty years of my life.

My phone rang. It was a voice note from my mother on Snapchat.

"Maria, Bella and John's family are coming over for dinner tonight. Come home early to help me clean up. Oh, and I made some baked yams for you. Just for you."

The voice note ended with a light, cheerful chuckle, as if she were talking about the most mundane household chore.

When I arrived home, the living room was already packed.

Bella was cracking sunflower seeds, John was scrolling through his phone, and Aunt Chloe was chatting happily with Marcus. The dining table was loaded with food.

At my designated spot, there was still only a bowl of bland, plain pasta.

"You're back!" My mother popped her head out of the kitchen with a bright smile. "Maria, wash your hands quickly. We were just waiting for you."

Chloe looked at the table and asked casually, "Why isn't Maria eating the main dishes with us?"

"Oh, don't even ask," my mother's face instantly shifted into that deeply practiced expression of sorrowful regret.

"Maria has a fragile, highly allergic constitution. She can't touch anything."

"Seafood sends her into shock, beef gives her terrible rashes, and she can't even stand the smell of mangoes."

"Oh, poor thing."

"I know, right?" She sat down, uttering her favorite line as naturally as breathing.

"She’s just had a hard life. She was born with bad luck."

'Born with bad luck.' She had repeated that line to me for twenty years.

Marcus kept his head down, stuffing his mouth with shrimp, saying nothing.

John looked up at me. "Maria, you should go get a proper medical test. Allergy tests are extremely accurate these days."

I opened my mouth to speak.

"We did," my mother chimed in quickly, waving her hand with a dismissive chuckle.

"Those laboratory machines are highly unreliable. I understand her body better than anyone. I've watched her grow up, after all."

She stood up, went into the kitchen, and brought out a bowl of the jet-black liquid, placing it right in front of me.

Everyone at the table saw it.

"Here, Maria. You ate some sketchy food outside yesterday. Drink this to flush out the toxins."

The dark liquid glistened oily under the dining room light, its bitter vapor rising slowly.

A severe emetic laxative. Highly toxic. Long-term use causing permanent infertility.

"Yes, Maria, you have to be careful with your fragile health," Bella chimed in from the side.

"Susan really goes above and beyond for you," Chloe added.

I picked up the bowl, my palms slick with cold sweat.

Everyone’s eyes were locked onto me. I set the bowl back down.

"Mom, I'm not drinking it tonight."

"What's wrong?" Her smile remained, but the muscles around her eyes tightened. "Are you throwing a fit in front of our guests?"

"No, I'm not throwing a fit. I just—"

"Maria," she lowered her voice, leaning in so close her lips almost brushed my ear.

"If you embarrass me in front of everyone tonight, you'd better think carefully about how you're going to survive under my roof from now on."

There was no warmth left in that voice. Only cold, absolute control.

"Just drink it, Maria," Bella tried to play peacemaker. "Your mother went through so much trouble to brew this for you. Don't let it go to waste."

I picked up the bowl again, brought it to my lips, but didn't drink.

I placed the bowl back on the table, stood up, and said, "Excuse me, I need to use the restroom."

As I walked away from the dining table, I could feel every single gaze pinning me from behind.

My mother's voice drifted after me—"It's fine, it's fine. She's just been under a lot of stress lately. I'll talk to her in a bit."

Inside the bathroom, I locked the door and leaned my back against the cold tile wall.

My palms still carried the residual warmth of that poisoned bowl.

I was running out of time.

She was accelerating everything—bringing the relatives over was to put pressure on me.

Bringing the medicine to the dining table in front of everyone was her way of asserting dominance.

If I kept dragging this out, she could destroy all the evidence in her cabinet at any moment, or even switch the medicine.

I pulled out my phone.

A thought struck me—with my mother busy hosting guests, her phone must be charging in her bedroom.

I slipped out of the bathroom and quietly entered her bedroom.

Her phone was lying on the nightstand, its screen glowing—she had forgotten to lock it.

Her pinned chats were right at the top.

The first was the family Snapchat group. The second—labeled: Mr. Henderson (Herbs).

I tapped it open.

The chat history stretched back from yesterday to three years ago.

At the beginning of every month, she would send the same message: "The usual. Two batches."

The reply was always just a price and an address confirmation.

I scrolled up, finding a conversation from a week ago.

Her message:

"Henderson, make this month’s batch a bit stronger. She didn't vomit much last time. I think her body is building a tolerance."

His reply: "Understood, I'll adjust the dosage. But you can't keep increasing the strength of this stuff. It's going to cause serious damage if she takes too much."

Her reply, sent five seconds later: "It's fine. Her body can take it."

I read every single word.

Then, I took screenshots and sent them to my email.

I took a second screenshot, a third, a fourth, until my fingers went numb.

Just as I sent the last one, my mother's voice called out from the living room, sounding sweet and cheerful.

"Maria? Where did you run off to? Come on out and have some yams before they get cold."