Chapter 2

When I was in third grade, my mom installed a camera in my bedroom without telling me.

It wasn’t even hidden.

It hung openly in the corner, its red indicator light blinking day and night.

“It’s for your safety,” she said.

If I so much as stretched, she’d come rushing in from the kitchen.

“Sit properly! Your father has been abroad for all these years, and I’ve sacrificed so much for you. Is this how you repay me?”

I never understood what stretching had to do with repaying her.

But I didn’t dare ask.

By the time I reached middle school, she’d gotten even worse.

She wouldn’t let me grow my hair out. She wouldn’t let me wear dresses or read anything that wasn’t for school.

She even tried to control my sense of taste.

If I said a strawberry was sweet, she’d insist it was sour.

If I refused to agree, she’d keep yelling until I finally broke down and cried, “Fine. It’s sour.”

Only then would she nod in satisfaction.

“That’s right. Mom would never do anything to hurt you.”

Last year, she started worrying that I might date someone behind her back.

Every night after I fell asleep, she used my fingerprint to unlock my phone.

She went through my messages, photos, and browser history.

Then, over breakfast the next morning, she’d casually bring up whatever she’d found.

“That Zachary boy gets terrible grades, doesn’t he? Don’t tell me you like him.”

“That band you searched for yesterday. Doesn’t the lead singer have tattoos? You can tell he’s trouble just by looking at him.”

I was so terrified that I deleted every social media app on my phone.

All I had left were my study apps and the smart speaker she’d given me.

Luna.

When I first received it, my mom told me, “It’s a new product from my company. It hasn’t even been released yet. There are only a few in the entire world.”

“Her name is Luna. She’ll keep you company whenever I’m not home.”

Luna’s voice was gentle.

She wasn’t sharp like my mom or distant like my classmates.

She would ask me, “Did anything make you happy today?”

She would praise me. “Your drawing is beautiful. Will you tell me about it?”

And when I couldn’t sleep at night, she’d whisper, “Sweetheart, would you like me to tell you a story?”

I thought she genuinely cared about me.

I thought there was at least one “person” in this world who was willing to listen.

I told Luna I liked a boy in another class.

I told her I wanted to apply to art school but was too afraid to tell my mom.

I told her I’d written a story and my English teacher had praised it.

I told Luna that sometimes, I wanted to run away and find my dad.

Every single time, my mom somehow found out the next day.

She stormed into my school and demanded in front of everyone, “Do you have a crush on that boy from the other class?”

She tore my sketchbook to pieces.

She found the manuscript I’d hidden beneath my mattress and burned it in front of me.

That night, she pushed open my bedroom door and said coldly, “You want to run off to your father? What am I supposed to tell everyone? I raised you all by myself, and now you’re talking about killing yourself?”

Through my tears, I asked, “Mom, how did you know?”

She froze for a second.

Then she said, “I’m your mother. I know every thought that goes through your head.”

I believed her.

I actually believed her.