My mom, Laura Parker, was an online performance artist who carefully crafted an image of herself as a tragic single mother raising her daughter alone.
To maintain this image, she made me write a “Misery Journal” every day.
Falling down earned me 10 points, being bullied earned another 10, and catching a fever came with a “reward” of $20.
“Emily Parker, Mommy loves you. That’s why I want you to remember these hardships—so you can grow strong.”
I didn’t want to disappoint her, so I bruised myself daily just to see that satisfied smile on her face.
By the end of the year, my body was covered in wounds.
The day I was about to throw myself off the rooftop, something strange happened—a system appeared.
I skipped breakfast on purpose, leaving my stomach painfully empty.
Picking up my pen, I neatly wrote in the journal: “I’m starving again today. My stomach hurts. I really wish I could eat Mom’s cooking.”
Laura took the journal and nodded with satisfaction.
“Good.”
She flipped open that shabby notebook—the Suffering Scoreboard—and added 10 points next to my name.
“Once you reach 100 points, you’ll get $50 for this week’s allowance.”
Then she grabbed her phone, paired it with a tired-looking selfie after a sleepless night, and began typing out a Facebook post.
“My daughter’s stomach illness flared up again. As her mom, my heart aches so much I couldn’t sleep all night.”
Post sent.
Within five minutes, aunts and uncles replied with sympathetic emojis and Venmo transfers.
The numbers on her screen jumped, and her eyes lit up with excitement.
“Mom, I’m heading to class.”
……
No reply. Laura was always extra focused whenever money transfers came in.
On my way, I passed a breakfast café and saw my roommate Sophie Miller happily eating soy milk and fried dough sticks.
She spotted me and waved enthusiastically. “Emily! Come over and eat with me, I bought too much!”
Instinctively, I stepped back.
The surveillance camera on the window pointed right at me—Laura must be watching.
Any moment of happiness would get me penalized.
“N-no thanks, I’m not hungry.” I hurried away.
During class, the teacher praised me in front of everyone for scoring the highest on the assignment, even posting about me in the parents’ group chat.
My classmates looked at me with envy, but I hunched my shoulders, wishing I could crawl under the desk.
God forbid anyone saw I was happy.
Before the bell even rang, my phone buzzed.
Laura had sent me a voice message:
“Emily Parker, why do you look so happy? Did you forget how your father died? You ungrateful brat!”
My hands trembled.
I opened the photo of the Suffering Scoreboard—the 85 points I had painstakingly earned that week were all erased.
That night, back in the dorm, Sophie and the others had gone out for dinner. I sat alone on my bed, calculating that once again, I’d have no allowance for the week.
Rain drizzled outside.
Staring at the window, an idea came to me.
I rushed outside without an umbrella and stood in the rain for half an hour. Water soaked through my clothes, my hair plastered to my face, leaving me utterly pitiful.
When I returned home, shivering and drenched, Laura’s eyes lit up instantly.
But instead of handing me a towel, her first move was to grab her phone.
“Lower your head a little! Yes, that’s perfect—make your eyes look sadder!” she said, thrilled as she adjusted the angle. “This shot will definitely get Aunt Mary to send another $200!”
Click.
The perfect tragic photo.
Laura immediately typed out a new Facebook post:
“My daughter walked home in the rain to save money on bus fare. She’s sick with a fever now. As her mother, my heart aches, but we truly can’t afford medical bills…”
Post sent.
Almost instantly, my phone buzzed non-stop with payment notifications.
Laura Parker counted the money happily, not even lifting her head.
“Emily, you did well today. I’ll add 30 points for you.”
I stood there, clothes still dripping wet, watching the excitement on her face.
But inside, I felt nothing but emptiness.
On the day final grades were released, I stared at the ranking on my computer screen, my heart pounding out of my chest.
First place.
The National Scholarship.
Eight thousand dollars.
I rubbed my eyes, making sure I wasn’t hallucinating.
It was the first time I had ever won something this big.
For once, I felt valuable.
I sprinted out of the dorm and rushed home.
Pushing open the door, I saw Laura flipping through the shabby Suffering Scoreboard, preparing her new Facebook post material.
“Mom! I got the scholarship! The National Scholarship—eight thousand dollars!”
My words tumbled over each other, excitement bubbling out of me. I wanted to shout this good news to the whole world.
She lifted her head, looking oddly blank.
“What scholarship?”
“The National Scholarship! Only five spots in the entire school, and I got first place!”
I thrust my phone toward her, my face glowing with pride. “Look, it’s written clearly on the transcript!”
She stared at the screen for three seconds.
Then—slap! A sharp sting burned across my cheek.
“Who told you to apply for that?”
I covered my face, stunned.
“You winning a scholarship ruins everything! How am I supposed to tell your Uncle David we’re too poor to survive? Do you know you just destroyed my entire plan for the next six months of sympathy money?”
Her finger jabbed at my nose, her eyes full of fury and blame.
“I… I thought you’d be happy for me…”
“Happy? How could I be happy?” She snatched up her phone, pulling up a chat log. “Look at this! Just yesterday I told your uncle you didn’t even have enough for living expenses. He was going to send two thousand this month. Now you show up with an $8,000 scholarship?”
My heart sank, piece by piece.
My honor meant less than her lies.
“Mom, I worked hard for this…”
“Worked hard?” she sneered. “You worked hard in the wrong direction! You should be working on looking more miserable, not more successful!”
“Listen to me, Emily. A mother always has her child’s best interests at heart. Remember, no one in this world loves you more than your mom. You must obey me.”
“Don’t sacrifice the big picture for something small.”
The next morning, she dragged me to campus.
Inside Professor Anderson’s office, her tears came on cue.
“Professor, I’m Emily’s mother,” she choked out, her voice trembling. “I came today to apologize for my daughter’s behavior.”
Professor Anderson looked puzzled. “What behavior?”
“She applied for a scholarship out of vanity, with no thought for our family’s situation,” Laura sobbed, dabbing at her eyes. “Yes, we really are struggling, but she shouldn’t have resorted to plagiarism.”
I froze, staring at her in shock.
Professor Anderson shook his head. “That’s impossible. She couldn’t have plagiarized…”
“Professor, Emily has always been vain, always wanting to be better than everyone else. But I believe honesty is far more important.”
Professor Anderson looked at me, then back at her, his expression complicated.
“So what are you saying?”
“I’d like us to switch her application to financial aid instead. We really do need help, but not through dishonest means.”
My fists clenched tightly under the desk.
In front of him, she had turned me into a vain cheater.
“Emily, tell the professor—wasn’t Mom right?”
Her eyes carried a silent threat.
“I… I plagiarized… I want to apply for financial aid.”
Professor Anderson sighed, his eyes filled with both pity and complexity.
“All right, I’ll help you with the paperwork.”
Around us, students lingered to watch the spectacle. My face burned with shame.
As soon as we stepped out of the office, Laura Parker immediately wiped away her tears and pulled out her phone.
“David, you won’t believe what happened today… Emily tried to plagiarize just to get a scholarship. I had to drag her to the professor’s office to apologize. I’ve never been so humiliated as a mother…”
On the other end, Uncle David’s voice was full of sympathy. Soon after, another transfer arrived.
Then it was Aunt Margaret’s turn. “Emily is being reckless—I’ll discipline her… Yes, yes, children must be strictly managed…”
One call after another, and with each call, more “comfort money” came pouring in.
I stood silently beside her, watching that smug expression spread across her face.
My heart bled.
Later, Professor Anderson lowered his voice to me.
“Emily, there’s a library off-campus that needs someone to help organize books. Two hours a day, fifteen dollars an hour. Given your situation, this might be a quiet fit.”
I froze.
“Don’t worry—just say it’s for a study group.”
I looked into his encouraging eyes and nodded firmly.
Back at the dorm, Sophie Miller and the others gathered around me.
“Emily, we’ll cover for you,” Sophie said, grabbing my hand. “If your mom asks, we’ll tell her we were all studying together.”
“That’s right—we’ll take turns walking you to the library.”
Their kindness made my nose sting with tears.
My first day at the part-time job, I was nervous beyond words.
After I finished stacking books, the librarian handed me thirty dollars.
“Good work. See you tomorrow.”
I clutched the bills, my hands trembling.
It wasn’t pity money from relatives—
It was mine.
I couldn’t stop touching the edges of the bills, over and over, relishing their texture.
Passing by a bubble tea shop, I hesitated a long time before finally buying a plain milk tea.
The first sip—the sugary sweetness burst across my tongue.
My eyes instantly burned with heat.
Since my father Michael had died, a cup of bubble tea had become a luxury.
I hid the rest of the money in my shoe insole and lay in bed that night, smiling secretly to myself.
I finally had a secret.
By the second week, I grew bolder.
With my earnings, I bought a movie ticket and sat alone in the back corner watching a comedy.
The jokes on screen tugged at the corners of my lips.
I clamped a hand over my mouth, terrified someone might hear me laugh too loudly.
…
“Emily, your journal entries lately don’t feel right.”
Laura flipped through my Misery Journal, her brows knitting.
“The sadness lacks soul. Are you phoning it in?”
My heartbeat spiked. “No, I write seriously every day.”
“Seriously?” she sneered. “Look at this line: ‘I starved again today.’ It’s too flat! Too plain!”
She slammed the notebook onto the table.
“When you used to write about being hungry, the despair dripped off the page. Now what? Are you sneaking food behind my back?”
Panic surged. “No, really, I didn’t.”
“Then why are you coming home so late? Since when do study groups run until eight o’clock?”
“Because… the coursework is heavier.”
She stared at me for a long time, her sharp gaze pinning me until I couldn’t meet her eyes.
The next day after work, I passed by a café and caught a glimpse out of the corner of my eye—
Laura sat at the window, phone in hand, her camera aimed straight at me.
My steps froze.
Then, forcing myself to pretend I hadn’t noticed, I quickened my pace and left.
When I got home—
“Emily, you’ve worked hard. No need to write in your journal tonight.”
