Chapter 3

I gritted my teeth and forced out the lie. "Yes... I love it."

Mom's expression finally softened slightly.

"Fine. If you want my forgiveness, hand over the child support debit card your father gave you."

My hand instinctively gripped my pocket. I shook my head in terror.

Mom’s eyes turned ice-cold.

Dad had strictly warned me never to let Mom know about that card.

I had accidentally let it slip during my delirium at the hospital.

"Then... what about my lunch money...?"

"I'll pack your lunch and deliver it to school every single day from now on."

Without waiting for an answer, Mom snatched the card right out of my pocket with a triumphant smirk.

That was her real goal all along. She could not tolerate anything escaping her grip—least of all money.

When school started on Monday, I waited by the entrance gate during the lunch break.

The lunch bell rang, yet there was no sign of her.

My stomach was howling with hunger. Just as the warning bell rang to return to class, Mom finally sauntered up.

She shoved a sleek bento box into my arms, turned around, and walked away without a word.

My classmates immediately gathered around.

"Whoa, Nora! Your mom packed you lunch? That’s so sweet!"

A faint smile touched my lips. My tiny, fragile pride felt a flicker of warmth.

Until I pulled off the lid.

Inside the pretty container was a solid, gelatinous mound of pure, glistening, pale pork fat.

A violent wave of nausea hit me instantly.

The students crowding around saw it too. Their smiles froze.

Dead silence fell over the hallway.

Around me, kids opened their lunch bags—crispy chicken nuggets, colorful salads, sandwiches layered with turkey and cheese.

Their bewildered, pitying stares felt like invisible hands wrapping around my neck, squeezing the air out of my lungs.

I dumped the entire box into the trash can, clutching my burning, empty stomach, telling myself I just had to hold out until dinner.

When I finally got home, two plates sat on the kitchen table.

One was a vibrant stir-fry of fresh greens and plump, pink shrimp.

The other was a cold, gray slab of boiled pork lard without a single speck of seasoning.

The moment my fork drifted toward the shrimp, Mom slapped my hand away brutally. "That's mine! The fat is yours."

I looked up at her, my eyes hollow.

"Mom... why don't you eat it?"

Mom’s eyes darted sideways, her voice stammering, "You... don't be ridiculous! Fat is packed with nutrients. Growing teenagers need it."

"Are you being a picky eater, Mom?"

The air froze. Mom clenched her jaw, picked up the tiniest shred of fat with her fork, and jammed it into her mouth.

"What nonsense! Why would I be picky?" she said through tight teeth.

A second later, she bolted into the bathroom, followed by violent sounds of retching.

A wave of bitter cold washed over my heart. A solitary tear rolled down my cheek.

You know how disgusting it is too, don't you, Mom?

A few minutes later, she walked back out, pretending nothing had happened.

She glared at me like a hawk. "Eat! Or are you still going to be a spoiled brat?"

I grabbed the fat with my bare hands and shoved it down my throat. No chewing. Just swallowing. Like a starving stray animal in the dirt.

Seeing this, Mom’s smug satisfaction flared up again.

She had no idea that under the wooden table, my fingers were digging so deep into my thighs that the skin was turning black.

The second she looked away after dinner, I bolted out the door down to the riverbank and threw up every single bit of grease.

Only then did the heavy, sickening weight in my chest lift slightly.

I stood by the freezing water for a long time, my mind completely blank.

Then, I jumped.