My physics teacher held up my test paper with an 18-point score in front of all the students and parents and said, “Students like this are hopeless. I don’t even know how someone like this passed the high school entrance exam.

“I didn’t think there was a way to cheat on the high school entrance exam, but it turns out there is. It gives people like this a chance to cheat.”

He did not just insult my intelligence but also questioned my character and family. “Well, it’s not surprising. Only a junk-collecting family could raise a kid like this.”

I curled up in my seat, too scared to say anything. But my stepmom could not stand it anymore. She smacked the chalk box off his desk, pointed at him, and yelled, “Who do you think you’re talking about?!

“I send my kid to school and pay all the tuition and book fees! How did it turn into us being a junk-collecting family?!

“You can’t even teach properly, and I haven’t called you out for it! Have you no shame?! You don’t deserve to be called a teacher! You’re just a piece of trash!”

For some reason, she suddenly seemed imposing and heroic to me.

During the summer of my eighth grade, my dad got me a stepmom.

He was 42 years old, and the woman was four years older than him.

They did not register their marriage or have a wedding. One day, out of nowhere, that woman suddenly showed up in our house.

Just like that, she entered the place I had lived in for all my fourteen years without any warning.

When I saw this chubby, dark-skinned woman, I felt nothing but disgust and dislike.

My dad, however, was beaming. He pulled me over, ignored my confusion and reluctance, and said excitedly, “She’s Scarlett. You’ve met her before at dinner. She’s going to be your mom now.”

She wore a loose cardigan that hung over her large frame.

After hearing my dad’s words, she gave me a fake smile. “Pearl, do you remember me? We had dinner together once with your dad and your godfather.”

I did remember. Her name was Scarlett Campbell.

I also remembered that before my godfather died, she was his mistress.

My godfather already had a wife and kids. She was the homewrecker who had forced her way into their happy family.

Right after my godfather passed away, she latched onto my dad.

When I did not say anything, my dad shoved me hard. He said with annoyance, “Call her Mom! What are you standing there for? Is this how I raised you? You ungrateful brat!”

I sneered inwardly.

She was not my mom. I already had a mom.

Scarlett quietly stepped closer. Her strong perfume hit me and made me feel dizzy.

She acted all understanding and said, “It doesn’t matter what she calls me. She’s still young. It must be hard for her to change how she addresses me so suddenly.”

Then, she pulled a square box from her purse and handed it to me.

She said, “This is a gift for you. Take it.”

She gave me a phone. It was the latest model. It was expensive and cost over 4,000 dollars.

The shiny phone seemed to sparkle, and I could not take my eyes off it.

My eyes, my head, and even my hands were out of control.

So, I shamefully accepted her gift.

And in return, I called her “Stepmom.”

My dad relaxed, and Scarlett turned to him with a smug smile.

Scarlett’s lips curled slightly, and it made her bright red lipstick look even more noticeable.

And just like that, she moved into our house without any fuss.

A new towel appeared on the bathroom rack, and a new cup with her toothbrush showed up on the sink.

But she did not just want to add her things to the house. She wanted to erase everything that reminded us of my mom and replace it with her own stuff.

She made huge changes.

She replaced the couch, threw out the cabinets, and even removed the kitchen hood. The house looked completely different.

She even wanted to take down my mom’s wedding photo that hung in my room.

When my mom left, she took everything she could.

The heavy wedding photo no longer held much meaning for her, so she left it behind. In the end, it became the only thing I had to remember her by.

Sometimes, when I looked at the photo, at my mom’s face that felt both familiar and distant, it almost felt like she was looking back at me.

Today, my dad was at work, and Scarlett had the day off.

I was in my room doing homework when she walked in with a plate of sliced fruit. She knocked lightly on the door and said in a fake, friendly tone, “Are you tired? Have some fruit and take a break.”

I glanced at her and quietly slid my phone, which was still on, under a book.

She noticed what I did but did not say anything. Instead, she turned to look at the wedding photo and started studying it.

She stared at the photo of my mom and said, “You’re as pretty as your mom. But a big photo like this doesn’t look good on the wall. I’m planning to renovate your room and put a cabinet here. You should take the photo down.”

Her tone was polite, and it sounded like she was doing it for me.

But I could see the malice and dislike in her eyes as she looked at my mom’s face in the photo.

I simply said, “No.”

She did not expect me to refuse so directly. The speech she had prepared was useless. After a moment, she tried again and talked at length to convince me.

But I kept saying no. I was cold and distant each time.

After getting rejected repeatedly, her face darkened, and she left my room.

When she called me for lunch, she was cold. She stopped pretending to be warm or trying to get my approval like before.

But as soon as my dad came home that evening, she ran to complain to him.

Of course, she did not mention the wedding photo.

Instead, she put on a guilty look and said, “Maybe I shouldn’t have bought her that phone. It’s my fault. I thought it would help her study or relax a bit.

“But today, she said she was doing homework, yet she stayed in her room all day playing on it. When I brought her some fruit, she quickly hid it under a book. I wonder what she’s using her phone for.”

I never thought she would complain to my dad so directly.

Before this, anyone who saw me using my phone, whether relatives or family friends, would either say nothing or remind me to stop in private.

None of them told my dad about it like she did.

That night, my dad had been drinking. After hearing her, he got furious. With a cigarette in his mouth, he kicked my door open.

My dad had broken the lock on my door long ago. All that was left was a hole where it used to be.

The thin door was covered with small cracks and stains that could not be cleaned. Each one was a sign of the violence he had caused.

He kicked the door open easily.

Without saying a word, he grabbed my arm, yanked me out of bed, and dragged me to the floor in one motion.

I was not prepared and felt dizzy from being pulled so suddenly.

My arm was twisted painfully, like it was about to pop out of its socket, and I could not stop myself from wincing.

Before I could even think, he slapped me hard across the face.

He was so much stronger than me that I could not fight back even if I wanted to.

I did not even have the chance to think about resisting before that thought was completely crushed.

He had a cigarette in his mouth, and smoke swirled around him. The glowing tip flickered, and he angrily shouted, “Just a few days without a beating, and you’re already acting out! Your stepmom bought you that phone to help with your studies, yet you spent the whole day playing on it!”

I tried to get up, but he slapped me again before I could.

“Did you finish your homework?! Did you get good grades on your exams?! Looks like all that studying was wasted on you! Your stepmom even cooked and called you to eat, but you didn’t come out! Do we need to feed you like a baby?!”

My face was on fire, and my ears were ringing. My ears, eyes, and scalp all throbbed with pain.

I did not dare look up. I stared blankly at his slippers and whispered nervously, “I didn’t…”

But I did not dare to explain myself.

My whole body was shaking.

“Didn’t what?! I’ve raised you all these years! Don’t I know exactly what kind of person you are?!”

His voice rumbled like thunder and shook the room.

He grabbed the dictionary from my desk and smashed it against my head.

I let out a scream, but I quickly swallowed it. Holding my head, I stayed quiet. I was too scared to make another sound.

Then came the third, fourth, and fifth slaps.

Each time I was knocked down, I would try to get up, only to be hit again.

Finally, blood started dripping from my nose, and he stopped.

My face no longer hurt. It just felt numb. Tears, snot, saliva, and blood mixed on my face, leaving a salty, bitter taste.

But he was not satisfied with just that. I knew he wanted me to say things like “I’m sorry” and “I won’t do it again,” just like before.

He would prefer if I cried and begged on my knees while saying those things.

This was how my dad and I had been since my mom left when I was in third grade.

But there was someone else in the house—Scarlett, the woman I hated more than anything.

I refused to cry or beg in front of her. I did not want her to see my pathetic side.

If she had not told on me to my dad…

If she had not given me that phone…

If she had not clung to my dad…

If none of this had happened, I would not be getting hit.

I hated her.

I hated her so much I wished she would just disappear.

That dark thought first appeared the moment my dad slapped me.