Chapter 3

The moment she heard "postpartum center," my mom's eyes turned red.

She glared at me through gritted teeth, a bone-chilling hatred rising from the depths of her eyes.

She slapped me hard across the face:

"You still have the nerve to ask!"

"I never got to stay at a postpartum center when I had you—why should you get to?"

I covered my face, stunned.

That phrase again.

I felt wronged and helpless.

Why? Why couldn't my mom stand to see me doing even slightly better than her...

Would a mother really be jealous of her daughter to this extent?

In the moment I was lost in thought, my mom suddenly rushed over and frantically lifted my shirt.

Her eyes flashed with excited light, full of anticipation:

"Over five months now—you must have stretch marks by now. Let me see how disgusting your stretch marks are!"

The moment she saw my smooth belly, my mom's smile froze on her face.

She rubbed her eyes, staring in disbelief again and again.

Finally, she reluctantly confirmed that my belly was smooth—there were no stretch marks at all.

She lifted her own shirt crying, pointing at the dark, cracked marks on her skin, glaring at me with hatred:

"To give birth to you, I became this ugly. Your dad was so disgusted he cheated."

"I got stretch marks—why shouldn't you!"

My mom roared.

Beyond anger, I felt a pang of sympathy.

Her life really had been bitter.

Maybe that bitter life had twisted her into what she was now.

I trembled as I opened my arms, wanting to hug my mom, wanting to repair our mother-daughter relationship.

"Mom, everyone's body is different."

"Let me take you to get treatments, okay?"

My mom also opened her arms.

I thought she would hug me, accept my goodwill.

But I was wrong.

The next second, my mom's nails clawed madly at the skin of my belly.

She was vicious, scratching deep with each stroke.

"Bullshit about different bodies! I know you secretly spent money on maintenance to show me up!"

"I won't let you have your way. I'm your mother—I have stretch marks, so you have to have them too!"

I was drenched in cold sweat, nearly fainting from the pain.

Looking down, I saw the flesh on my belly had been torn open by her nails.

Lines like centipedes, winding and ugly, oozing blood.

They actually looked like stretch marks now.

To make me like her, my mom had actually scratched a pattern of stretch marks into my skin with her nails...

Enough. Enough.

They were already deep enough, ugly enough.

But my mom seemed unsatisfied, continuing to dig her nails viciously into my flesh.

I cried out for help in sad desperation:

"Jackson, save me!"

Jackson burst in, shocked by the scene before him.

He ran toward me.

I couldn't hear what they said. I clutched my blood-drenched belly and passed out.

At the hospital, Jackson held my hand in fear:

"Your mom is terrifying. I'm looking into reliable psychiatric hospitals. From now on, let's have as little to do with her as possible."

I nodded in agreement.

When we returned home from the hospital, I found my mom there too.

I suddenly regretted giving her a spare key to our house. Seeing my hospital gown, my mom rolled her eyes at me unhappily:

"I never went to the hospital when I gave birth. You lost a little blood—why did you need to go to the hospital?"

"Jackson, you need to control her. Going to the hospital wastes money. So delicate!"

My heart, already torn to shreds by her, ached fiercely again.

The doorbell suddenly rang. My mom happily went to answer it.

She came in intimately linking arms with a young woman.

The girl was young and pretty, wearing a revealing maid outfit, her bottom barely covered by black stockings.

Jackson and I exchanged glances, both confused.

My mom pushed the girl next to Jackson like she was showing off a treasure, giggling:

"Jackson, this is Sienna. I hired her as your nanny. She's got a great body and she's capable—isn't she so much better than your wife?"