A Transactional Mom: I Collect Payment Ten Years Later

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."