I changed my plan and set the knife down.
Then I turned away, grabbed a garbage bag, and tidied up the wreckage around the house.
When my mother woke, I was already sitting on a small stool in the living room.
Rubbing her temples, she frowned. “What are you staring at? Today we film you frying eggs and cooking porridge. Wear the blue dress.”
I smiled obediently. “Okay, Mom.”
She set up her phone, adjusted the angle, and began recording.
On camera, I stood on tiptoe, carefully adding water to the pot and turning on the gas stove.
Repeating the lines she taught me: “Mom works so hard, Sophia has to make breakfast for her. Don’t add too much water, or the porridge will spill over…”
She directed from the side: “Sweeter expression! Yes! Act clumsy, don’t look too practiced. Okay, that’s enough.”
She added filters, warm background music, and hashtags like #MySweetLittleHelper #MiniChef #BestDaughterInTheWorld before posting it to the influencer account “Sophia’s World.”
The moment it went online, likes and comments poured in:
“The joy of raising kids online—who else gets it? Sophia is so sweet!”
“Another day wanting to steal this child! How can she be this smart and capable!”
“Daddy fan here! My daughter is amazing! (don’t kill me)”
“This is literally my dream daughter—pretty, obedient, smart, capable!”
…
My mother ate the breakfast I’d made while scrolling through the comments, a smile spreading across her face.
The account’s traffic brought in good money, but that wasn’t her only goal.
“A bunch of broke nobodies—how many will actually pay up?” she muttered. Then her eyes grew obsessed again.
“He’ll see this. He has to. He’ll see the child I gave him is a thousand times better than that woman’s son. He’ll regret it!”
After breakfast, she gave me a new task.
“Watch the dance video I gave you. We’ll film this afternoon. It has to be even more dazzling than last time.”
While I studied the video, she stepped aside to make a call.
I watched her expression grow more and more excited, and my hatred deepened.
She always said that the night she met Richard was romantic, that he was tender, that he promised her forever.
But it had been just a common one-night exchange, which she deluded herself into believing was a legendary love story.
When she found herself pregnant, she showed Richard the test result.
She thought she could leverage it, but Richard brushed her off with five million dollars as a settlement.
The money was delivered by his assistant, who handled these things routinely—Richard never even showed his face.
Still, she believed she was different from other women. She said she wouldn’t bother him again, but she secretly gave birth to me.
When I was two, she dressed us both up, thinking she held a trump card, and went excitedly to see Richard.
She didn’t even get through the front gate.
I saw clearly—Richard just said one sentence:
“Who’s this crazy woman? Get rid of her.”
He had long forgotten her.
Soon after, Richard married Grace Coleman, an heiress from a wealthy family.
At the wedding, Grace held a baby boy in her arms.
The media plastered photos of the happy high-society family across every news outlet.
When my mother saw it, she lost her mind.
She smashed everything she could, screaming over and over:
“I bore his child! Why did he marry her? Why her?!”
