A Transactional Mom: I Collect Payment Ten Years Later

My mom has been brainwashing me with her "quid pro quo" rule. Apparently, I must work hard in earning money just to get whatever I want. A round of doing the dishes earns me 50 cents. Mopping the floor once grants me one dollar. If I get a full score in my exams, that'll be five dollars. In order to buy a pair of white sneakers that I had had my eye on for a long time, I spent three months picking up trash from the streets. I lived like a maid who was paid on one-time services in this home. When I was a high school senior, I fainted during my homeroom period due to long periods of malnutrition. Even though my doctor suggested to my mom to pay attention to my nutrient intake, she began calculating the costs in front of my sick bed instead. "Your hospitalization costs 300 dollars. On top of that, you have a 200-dollar medical bill to settle. All of these costs will be reflected on your wedding gifts in the future, Emily." But when I turned my head, I saw a student sitting on the bed being fed chicken noodle soup by her own mother. Said mother was so heartbroken by her daughter's illness that she kept shedding tears as well. At that moment, my outlook on the world, that I had been maintaining for 18 long years, finally crumbled into dust. It turned out that not all children needed to work hard just to feel their parents' love. After getting discharged from the hospital and returning home, I finally sobered up the moment I noticed the sneakers that my younger brother, Arnold Baird, wore that cost several thousands of dollars. Then, I tore the family portrait into pieces and didn't hesitate to fill in the university that was located the furthest from home when it was time for me to submit my post-graduation details. Ten years later, my mom calls me on the phone. She starts crying to me how Arnold has swindled her out of her pension. Apparently, he's even sold the house just so he can elope with his girlfriend. Not only is my mom alone now, but she doesn't have a place to stay as well. I just smile as I throw her a piece of rag. "You want to live with me, huh? No problem. You'll earn 50 cents for every window you wipe. You can earn your rent like this." Chapter 1 The sharp sting of disinfectant pierced my nostrils, and only then did my consciousness slowly return. The first thing I saw was Mom's face. It was colder than ice. "You're awake?" She didn't even look up; her fingers were busy tapping away on a calculator. "The doctor said it's nothing serious—just low blood sugar and malnutrition. The hospital stay was 300 dollars, the tests were 180 dollars, and the medicine was 120 dollars. Emily, I'll cover this for you first." Mom finally looked up and turned the calculator screen toward me. It displayed a stark 600. My lips were so cracked that I couldn't utter a single word. During morning class, I had been memorizing Anglune vocabulary when the world went black and I collapsed. Right before I lost consciousness, my last thought was that this month's perfect attendance bonus was gone. That was my reality. To motivate me to study, Mom had set a rule—if I wasn't late or absent for a full month, I'd receive a reward of 50 dollars. But that 50 dollars wasn't even one-tenth of the hospital bill she'd just tallied for me. "Mom…" I struggled to sit up. She frowned and shoved me back down. "Don't move. If you break the equipment, we'll have to pay even more." Just then, a gentle, doting voice drifted over from the hospital bed next to mine. "Drink slowly. Don't burn yourself. No one's going to take it from you." I turned my head and saw a girl around my age. Dressed in the same school uniform as me, she was leaning against her headboard. Her mother held a thermal flask, blowing on a spoonful of chicken soup to cool it before feeding her. "Mom, I'm not a kid anymore. You don't have to feed me like this," the girl said, looking a little embarrassed. "No matter how old you are, you're still my daughter." Her mother wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, her voice thick with tenderness. "Look at your pale little face—senior year has really done a number on you. "Once you're home, I'll make you nourishing soup every day. Studying isn't more important than your health. If it comes down to it, you don't even have to take the SATs. I'll take care of you for the rest of your life." The girl smiled, her eyes glistening. I stared at the steaming bowl of chicken soup, and my stomach twisted with bitter sorrow. Growing up, I never had chicken soup. Even a simple boiled egg required a "chore coupon" to earn. Sweeping the floor earned me one coupon; doing the whole family's laundry earned me three. Each coupon was worth 50 cents, and one boiled egg cost two coupons. That was Mom's "quid pro quo" rule. In this house, love was a luxury—something that had to be purchased at a clearly marked price. Seeing me staring fixedly at the neighboring bed, Mom curled her lip. "What are you looking at? She's a princess born with a silver spoon, but you were born worthless. If I don't make you work for it, who's going to put food in your mouth?" Her words stung like poison, hitting me right in my most vulnerable spot. The mother and daughter in the next bed fell silent instantly, casting sympathetic glances my way. So, I was born to be a piece-rate laborer. And yet, a maternal love that was unconditional—that asked for nothing in return—truly did exist. I slowly closed my eyes, forcing back the tears. I looked at Mom's harsh, self-righteous face and said calmly, "Mom, don't worry. I'll pay you back every single cent of that 600 dollars. I'll pay back everything you've spent raising me for the last 18 years too." Chapter 2 The day I was discharged, Mom dropped me off at the bus stop and took a cab home herself. Her reasoning was simple. She'd already fronted me 600 dollars, so she wasn't about to waste another 20 dollars on a cab for me. I clutched the only two dollars I had in my pocket and took the hour-long bus ride home. When I pushed open the door, my brother, Arnold Baird—who was two years younger than me—was strutting around the living room in a brand-new pair of limited-edition Adidas sneakers. "Emily, check these out. Pretty cool, right? They cost over 200 dollars!" he beamed, radiating pride. I looked at his sneakers, then down at my own canvas sneakers—washed pale, the soles nearly worn through—and said nothing. My shoes were "luxury goods" I'd bought for 20 dollars with money saved from three months of collecting junk. Mom poked her head out of the kitchen. When she saw me, her face immediately soured. "Finally, you're back. I thought you'd died in the hospital. Hurry up—the dishes in the sink are piled sky-high. Wash them, and I'll credit you two dollars. Consider it an investment in your college tuition." As she spoke, her gaze softened as it landed on Arnold. "You look so handsome in those shoes—just like a celebrity. Come on, I'm taking you to KFC." Arnold cheered. As he passed me, he deliberately stepped on my foot. "What are you looking at, you broke loser?" he muttered under his breath. I looked down at the shoeprint on my shoe, my fists clenching slowly. This wasn't new. This contrast in treatment had existed for as long as I could remember. In third grade, a girl named Lily Dawson wore a pink princess dress with lace trim. I was so envious it physically ached. When I got home, I tugged on Mom's sleeve and begged her for an entire evening to buy me one. She didn't even look away from the TV. "You want it? Fine. That dress costs 80 dollars. Save up for it yourself." I pulled out my cookie-tin piggy bank and dumped out the change. After counting it three times, it totaled just 26 dollars and 50 cents. Every cent was hard-earned money I'd made by doing chores for the family—money from buying cooking oil, scrubbing the toilet, and taking out the trash. "It's not enough," Mom said. "If you want the dress, sweep the floor. I'll credit you 50 cents. When you've saved enough, you can buy it." For that dress, I worked like a girl possessed. I grabbed every chore I could find after school. In the winter, the tap water felt like shards of ice. My hands developed chilblains. They were red, swollen, and covered in tiny cracks that stung the moment they got wet. When Mom saw them, she simply tossed a cheap jar of Vaseline at me. "Put this on. Don't let it stop you from working. Since you look so pitiful, I'll raise tonight's dishwashing credit to 2 dollars and 50 cents." At the time, that extra 50 cents felt like a miracle. It took me a full four months to save those 80 dollars. When I excitedly presented the pile of change to Mom, she counted it and frowned. "It's too cold for a dress now. Buying one would be a waste of money. I'll keep this for you for now; we'll put it toward your textbook fees for next semester." That winter, I wore my old padded coat with frayed cuffs while Arnold rolled around in the snow in a brand-new puffer jacket. I finally worked up the courage to ask, "Mom, why doesn't Arnold have to do chores to get new clothes?" While brushing the snow off Arnold's jacket, she answered matter-of-factly, "He's your little brother, and he's a boy. One day, he'll have to lead this family. He's different from you." Back then, I didn't understand what "different" meant. I just thought I hadn't worked hard enough to earn that kind of love. Now, I understood. To Mom, Arnold was family and an investment. I, on the other hand, was an outsider, a tool to be used for labor. I walked into the kitchen and stared at the mountain of greasy dishes. Without a word, I plunged my hands into the bone-chilling water. After I finished, I took out the small ledger hidden in my pocket and made a note. "Senior year. Fainted and hospitalized. "Owe Mom 600 dollars. "Goal: Escape. "Step One: Get into the farthest college possible." Chapter 3 Ever since I returned from the hospital, I'd been living like a tightly wound machine. I spent my days buried in test prep at school and my nights killing myself over chores at home. I was severely sleep-deprived. I could only catch up on rest during the ten-minute breaks between classes or memorize a couple of vocabulary words on my way to the restroom. My teacher, Gretchen Moyer, called me in for a talk. She gazed at the dark rings under my eyes, deeply concerned. "Emily, you haven't been yourself lately. Your mock exam scores have dropped out of the top 50 in your grade. If this continues, you might not even make it to a first-tier college. Is something going on at home?" I shook my head and forced a smile that felt more painful than crying. "No, Ms. Moyer. I just haven't been studying efficiently." I didn't dare to tell her the truth. I was terrified that if I spoke up, Ms. Moyer would make a home visit and talk to Mom. That would only convince Mom that I'd been "telling tales" and shaming her. She would take all that frustration and turn it into even more chores and more bills for me to pay. I clutched my dismal report card until my knuckles turned white. When I got home, what awaited me wasn't comfort but another round of Mom's "value assessment". "This is the best you can do? Looks like you're not capable of much." She took a bite of her watermelon, spitting the seeds onto the floor. "I've said it all along—what's the use of girls getting so much education? "You'd be better off working early and helping the family. Oh, by the way, Arnold wants to sign up for guitar lessons. It's two thousand dollars a semester. "How's that college tuition of yours coming along? If you can't get into a good school, don't waste the money. How about you use it for Arnold's lessons instead?" I felt all the blood in my veins turn to ice. In their eyes, the meager savings I'd painstakingly earned through countless sleepless nights and bleeding hands weren't even as important as Arnold's latest hobby. Arnold sat nearby, eyes glued to his video game. When he heard this, he looked up and shouted, "Yeah, Mom's right! You're not going to get in anyway, so that money might as well go to me." I looked at their smug, self-righteous faces, and my stomach churned. I didn't cry and I didn't make a scene. I knew by now that tears held no currency here. Instead, I simply picked up the broom and began sweeping up the watermelon seeds Mom had spit across the floor. "I'll pay you five dollars for sweeping the floor," Mom said, mistaking my silence for obedience. She generously quoted her price. "Scrub the toilet later, and I'll give you another ten. In fact, I'll give you 15 dollars for the whole lot today." I nodded. "Okay." I needed money for travel, for tuition, and for the emergency fund that would keep me alive once I finally escaped. That night, as I knelt on the cold tiles scrubbing the toilet, my mind frantically cycled through words—exhausted, desperate, rebellion, escape. Each word cut into my heart like a blade, leaving bloody gashes behind. I scrubbed with a vengeance until every single tile in the bathroom sparkled. Mom came by to inspect my work and nodded with satisfaction. She pulled 15 dollars from her wallet and handed it over. "Good job. Here's your money." I took the bills and tucked them deep into my pocket. Back in my room, I opened the ledger and wrote "15 dollars paid" next to the entry that said, "Owe Mom 600 dollars". Then, I pulled out a map. My gaze traveled south, then all the way north—past countless cities—until it finally settled on the city of Harboreal. It was 1,250 miles away, a place of nothing but snow and ice. It was far enough. I closed the map, took out my practice exams, and started frantically grinding through the questions. Chapter 4 The day the SATS were over, I tallied up my estimated score; it was 20 points higher than my best-ever practice test. Harboreal College was practically in the bag. When the acceptance letter arrived, Mom happened to be out. My hands trembled as I took the envelope stamped with "Harboreal College" from the mailman. I hid it at the very bottom of my backpack, then picked up the mop and started cleaning the floor as usual. I didn't pack a single thing until the day before classes were set to start. That day, I slammed the acceptance letter and train ticket down on the dining table. "I'm leaving for Harboreal to start college after this meal." Mom was cutting steak for Arnold when she heard me. Her fork jerked, and the meat dropped onto the table. She picked up the acceptance letter in disbelief, staring at the school's name for a long time before finally looking at me. "Harboreal? Why would you go all the way out there? Are you insane? Do you have any idea how expensive the travel fare will be? What's wrong with the state college I told you about? It's close to home, and it costs less." "I'm going to Harboreal, and that's that." "What about your tuition?" She sneered, certain she'd found my weak spot. "I'm not going to give you a single cent! Let's see how you manage then." Arnold gloated from his seat. "Yeah! How are you going to pay for college with no money? You think you're Harboreal College material? Please." I ignored him. Instead, I pulled out a heavy metal box from under my bed. Inside was a mountain of crumpled ones, fives, tens, and twenties, with only a few hundred-dollar bills mixed in. My total savings came to 8,365 dollars and 50 cents. It was everything I'd earned since elementary school through blood, sweat, physical wounds, and my own dignity. "When did you save all this?" Mom stared at the pile, her eyes wide. "Starting the day you told me I had to earn every single cent myself." I stood up and slung my already-packed bag over my shoulder. "This is enough to cover my first year's tuition and my travel. I'll earn the rest myself." "Emily!" Mom shot up from her chair, her expression livid. "Don't you dare leave! If you do, who's going to take care of us and do the chores?" That was the funniest joke I'd ever heard. I looked at her enraged face and, for the first time, I smiled. "Mom, you can always hire a housekeeper. But I doubt you'll find one as cheap and hardworking as me." With that, I pulled the door open and walked out without looking back. Behind me, Mom's voice rose into hysterical curses. "You ungrateful brat! If you have the nerve to leave, don't you ever come back! I can't wait to watch you starve out there! Don't come crawling back to me!" I'd just reached the bottom of the stairs, ready to rush toward the freedom ahead, when a sudden shriek erupted behind me. "You want to leave? Fine. But leave the money behind!" I spun around to see Mom and Arnold charging down the stairs like predators. "I gave birth to you! Your life belongs to me, so your money belongs to me too!" Mom shrieked, lunging straight for the money-filled backpack. Arnold circled around from the other side, reaching out to snatch the train ticket from my hand. "You think you can leave without giving us the money? Give me the ticket!" There were only three hours left until my train departed. They had me cornered at the stairwell entrance. Behind me was the darkness of the hallway, and ahead of me stood two thieves. I tightened my grip on my backpack straps. As I looked at their twisted faces, only one thought remained—no one was going to stop me from leaving that day.