My mother walked over, holding a bowl of shrimp, smiling sweetly.
"Alyssa, you want me to delete those videos, don’t you? Eat these shrimp, and I’ll delete them. I’ll even stop livestreaming for good. How about that?"
A chill ran down my spine, as if I had plunged into an icy lake in the dead of winter.
This wasn’t a compromise. She was just finding a different way to assert control.
I had been allergic to shrimp since childhood, but Mom always insisted I was just being dramatic.
She was determined to "fix" my bad habit.
When it came to my health, my father never compromised. That was why he was the one who always cooked our meals.
And he had warned me, time and time again, never to eat anything my mother gave me.
If this had happened before, I would’ve grabbed the plate, smashed it on the ground, and immediately called Dad.
But that day, I was exhausted.
I met my mother’s gaze, speaking slowly with a solemn gaze. "Do you really want me to eat this?"
"If I eat this plate of shrimp, I’ll die. Would you still want me to eat it?"
Her eyes lit up with excitement. "Don’t be ridiculous. It’s shrimp! It’s full of nutrients. You’re not going to die just from eating it." She scoffed, shaking her head. "You always say such dramatic things. Your father’s an idiot for believing you all these years. But I’m not as gullible as him. Now eat. Hurry up."
She watched me expectantly, her hands trembling in anticipation.
This silent war between us had lasted nearly twenty years.
And at this moment, she was finally declaring victory.
I felt something inside me break.
I was tired—too tired to resist anymore.
I took the bowl from her hands and stuffed the shrimp into my mouth, one after another. Chewing, swallowing, forcing them down as fast as I could.
My mother’s eyes never left me.
When I finished, she let out a deep sigh of satisfaction.
"See? That wasn’t so bad. You’re perfectly fine."
But I wasn’t.
My throat tightened. I could feel it swelling, and my body heating up.
To make sure I wouldn't, survive, as soon as the first signs of an allergic reaction kicked in, I turned and walked to my room, locking the door behind me.
For once, Mom didn’t scream after me. Instead, she hummed a tune and settled in to watch her dramas, utterly content.
The moment I shut the door, my legs gave out and I collapsed onto the floor.
My skin burned, red welts erupting across my body, itching unbearably.
But the itching didn’t matter.
I could barely breathe.
My airway was closing, but the pain didn’t last long.
Within minutes, the world faded to black.
And for the first time, I felt free.
But my consciousness didn’t disappear.
I didn’t leave. I remained, trapped within these walls, unable to move on.
That evening, my father came home.
He carried fresh lettuce and a small strawberry cake—my favorite.
Mom, in an uncharacteristically good mood, greeted him with a smile instead of an argument.
"Oh, you went shopping? Don’t cook too much. Alyssa already ate."
My father froze. His eyes snapped at hers, sharp and cold. "What did you give her?"
She waved a hand dismissively. "Shrimp. See? I told you she could eat it. You just coddled her too much. Honestly, she gets more dramatic by the day. From now on, she should—"
The groceries slipped from Dad’s grasp, hitting the floor with a dull thud.
Without a second thought, he bolted to my room.
And when the door didn’t open—he threw his entire body against it.
