My Rage Is Mom's Anti‑Aging Secret

I rubbed my eyes in disbelief. When I looked again, one of the fine lines at the corners of Mom's eyes had definitely vanished.

Last night around 12:30 am, I had gone to the kitchen for a glass of water while finishing up some work. Seeing Mom still glued to her show, I had urged her to get some sleep. After all, she was in her 50s. She couldn't afford to pull all-nighters anymore.

She just waved me off, ignoring the advice.

Finally, I reminded her, "Your crow's feet are showing."

Her face went pale instantly. She scrambled for her phone, frantically checking her reflection in the camera. When she spotted the lines, she bolted for the bathroom to slather on a bunch of skincare products.

Back then, I'd seen two distinct wrinkles at the corner of her eye. Now, one was gone.

The surrounding noise snapped me back to reality.

I shook my head, thinking I had to be hallucinating. After all, I hadn't slept well.

Mom was still busy berating a sales clerk nearby.

The constant bustle of the crowd was giving me a headache. Losing interest in the shopping trip, I turned to leave.

Upon hearing that I was leaving, Mom looked shocked.

"Tara, aren't you… angry?" she asked, sounding suspicious.

I couldn't blame her for being surprised. After all, I hated people commenting on my looks or calling me old.

For as long as I could remember, my face hadn't matched my age.

At five years old, I looked ten.

At ten years old, I looked 20.

And now, in my early 20s, I carried the face of a 50-year-old woman.

I'd suspected some kind of underlying illness, but after countless hospital visits and endless tests, the results always came back the same—I was perfectly healthy.

Because of this face, I'd grown up facing nothing but ostracization and judgment.

As I got older, my fuse got shorter. The mere mention of the word "old" was enough to make me snap.

I'd only taken a few steps before Mom caught up and grabbed my hand. She pointed toward the snack aisle. "Wait. Come help me pick out some chips before we go."

She practically dragged me over. While she leafed through the bags on the shelves, I pulled out my phone to handle a few work emails.

After we checked out, I headed for the exit. But the moment I crossed the threshold, the alarm blared.

The nearest cashier sprinted over and stretched out her arms to block my path. "Excuse me. I need to search your belongings."

My pulse throbbed in my forehead. A surge of irritation rose from the pit of my stomach. It was just one of those days where nothing could go right.

I was just about to lash out when Mom bumped into me from behind. I stumbled, and a neatly wrapped lollipop fell from my coat and hit the floor.

Mom gasped, covering her mouth. "Tara, what is this?"

When I saw the lollipop, I froze on the spot.

I hadn't touched a single thing on the shelves. How did that get on me?

Before I could process it, the cashier pointed at the lollipop and screamed, "Caught red-handed! Dressed like a lady but stealing a two-dollar lollipop?"

Her shouting drew a crowd. Slowly, people began to stop and stare.

I forced myself to stay calm and demanded to see the security footage.

The cashier crossed her arms and let out a cold snort. "Oh, I see how it is. You're a pro, aren't you? You probably scouted the place and knew exactly where the blind spots were."

This was getting out of hand.

I took a deep breath, trying to defend myself. I lifted my shopping bag. "Check my membership records. I spend eight to ten grand a year at this store. I just spent over 100 dollars today. Do you really think I'd steal a two-dollar candy?"

The logic seemed to land. Several onlookers started nodding.

"She's right. That coat she's wearing alone costs over ten grand."

"She doesn't look like a shoplifter. Besides, who'd be stupid enough to steal for two dollars when there's a detector right at the door?"