Because I had a face that screamed 'pick-me girl', I became the target of my mother's deepest hatred.

She claimed that just seeing me made her sick, bringing back memories of my father's affair.

In retaliation, she channeled all her affection into helping a child from a poor village, praising her for being kind and genuine while insisting she loved her hundreds of times more than she ever loved me.

But then that same girl went behind my back and seduced my boyfriend, and my mother reacted by hitting me across the face repeatedly.

"How did I end up with such a shameless daughter? You're the third wheel, and you're accusing her of being the other woman!"

Yet when I fell gravely ill with cancer, she was beside herself with grief, begging for forgiveness while praying earnestly.

"How could I not love you, my dear? I've made such terrible mistakes…"

When my mother was just days away from giving birth to me, my father cheated on her with her closest friend.

I was born on the side of the road, a consequence of my father's infidelity sending my mother into a tailspin.

For a woman who had indulged in privilege for most of her life, this was a disgrace, a stain she couldn't wipe away.

My father, feeling invincible because their marriage had been an arranged one, was arrogant and reckless. But my mother had a fiery spirit; she stood her ground and divorced him.

Determined to show everyone that she was fine on her own, she transformed into a relentless workaholic, pouring herself into her career.

Not one to be outdone, my father devised a plan to take me away, believing it would hurt my mother. This was something I learned only later.

Truthfully, my mother didn't care about my well-being; my very existence felt like a mistake to her, a symbol of original sin.

She believed that if she hadn't gotten pregnant with me, my father wouldn't have sought solace in another woman's arms.

Thus began a bitter battle between them that lasted for years.

To win, my mother feigned love for me in public but tormented me in private.

She warned me, "If you tell anyone about this, I'll pretend you don't exist. Don't think your father cares for you; your stepmother could easily get rid of you! One day, they'll have children of their own, and then you'll realize how worthless you are!"

The most chilling words I heard in my childhood were her vicious curses.

"Your father doesn't love you at all; he already has another family. You'll only be a burden to them. You have only me—without me, you have no life, no future…"

In the end, my mother won the battle, while I lost completely.

The mistress had given my father a son.

From that point on, he showed no interest in me—he truly didn't love me.

But I soon discovered my mother didn't love me either.

Growing up in such a hostile environment, I became exceptionally perceptive, constantly seeking to please my mother.

I learned to read her moods well, but to her, my efforts came off as manipulative and repulsive, just like that mistress.

She rejected my attempts to bond and often grabbed my face, hurling endless insults.

"You worthless, pick-me girl, you are disgusting…" She would hurl every crude label at me.

As I grew older, her hatred intensified.

She claimed I had the face of a "pick-me girl" and warned that one day I'd be knocked down for it.

At six years old, I reached out for my mother's embrace, and in a fit of rage, she shoved me away.

She showed no hesitation in sending me into a dangerous fall. As a result, I stumbled backward, tumbling down a flight of stairs.

That incident left a lasting mark on me; I remember it vividly.

I once had an adorable face people showered praises on, but the incident made me an ugly girl that people avoided like the plague.

At school, I felt isolated, and my classmates avoided me because of the scar that now marred my forehead.

That scar came from the fall down the stairs that could have been treated easily, but my mother wouldn't allow it.

She said, "I'm helping you shed that pick-me-girl look; you should be grateful!"

Thus, the scar accompanied me throughout my childhood.

But my mother's cruelty didn't stop there.

When I turned twelve, she switched to a new form of torment.

She took me hiking but abandoned me halfway up the mountain, leaving me to scream for help with no one around to hear me.

By the time they found me, I was a bloody mess, and the doctor scolded my mother for letting a child wander off alone.

With tears streaming down my face, I pleaded with the doctor, "Please don't blame my mom; she loves me!"

The doctor looked skeptical but quickly turned his attention to treating my injuries, ignoring my mother.

In fact, I understood everything. I was terrified of facing my mother's wrath once we went home.

And sure enough, she struck me again. My body was covered in bruises as I crawled out of the hospital bed, begging her to stop, telling her I was in so much pain.

She took pleasure in using a thorny switch, whipping my face repeatedly.

"Look at you, pretending to be a victim! What a pathetic person you are! You're just like that tramp. You think I can't see through your pick-me act? You're just a kid, and you're already so good at manipulating others with your sad little story, huh?"

I cried out, repeating, "I'm not being manipulative, Mom! Please stop…"

The soundproofing in the VIP hospital room was effective, and after she was done, I was rushed to the emergency room that night.

A sense of fear gripped my heart; for the first time, I wanted to reach out to my father for help. I wanted to tell him how much it hurt.

But when the nurse dialed his number for me, I heard him dodging my pleas.

"Since you're with your mom now, I'm not your dad anymore…"

My heart sank, and I couldn't express the words I longed to say; I just sobbed in silence.

As soon as he finished speaking, I could hear him softly whispering to his son, his tone cheerful.

"Darling, you're amazing—you got all A+ grades again! What do you want as a reward? I'll get you whatever you want…"

I signaled for the nurse to hang up. She looked at me with pity in her eyes.

However, the next day, I faced an even harsher punishment from my mother.

Apparently, my father had taken the opportunity to scold her, and in turn, she decided to take it out on me.

One whip after another, she struck me with a leather strap, the thorns tearing at my skin.

My flesh bled, and I felt like I was about to die.

From that day on, I became even more cautious around my mother and stopped seeking my father's help altogether.

I felt like a punching bag, a disposable piece of junk that nobody wanted.

Throughout college, I continued to endure bullying, and the tormentor was a girl my mother was sponsoring.

My mother often bragged about how Wendy Morton was a kind and innocent child, saying I could never compare.

But she had no idea that the "kind" girl she praised was the ringleader of my tormentors.

Wendy strutted around in a custom-tailored outfit that my mother had designed, flaunting a luxury diamond necklace around her neck.

I hadn't forgotten how she manipulated me.

At the freshman meet-and-greet, my mother sat proudly in the center as the sponsor, while Wendy wore an old, faded high school uniform and gave a speech about resilience that captivated my mother.

Without hesitation, my mother declared she would adopt Wendy as her goddaughter.

I was the host that day, yet I didn't receive a single glance from my mother, as if I were her enemy instead of her daughter.

During a break, I went to the restroom and accidentally overheard a conversation between Wendy and her friend.

Her tone was smug, as if she had pulled off some grand feat.

"Luckily, your uncle holds a high position at that old witch's company and helped me gather her preferences! Now that I've successfully become her daughter, you all can expect some benefits in the future!"

Her friend chimed in, "I heard she hates pick-me girls, so you'd better not get caught! Haha… just thinking about how easy it is to manipulate that old hag makes me laugh!"

I flung open the door to the accessible restroom, and a cloud of smoke hit me, reeking of cigarettes.

I coughed, my anger flaring up again as I slapped Wendy across the face. Her eyes narrowed, filled with fury. "What the hell is wrong with you? Who do you think you are?"

A smirk crept onto my lips as rage surged within me. My mother might have treated me poorly, but I wouldn't let anyone play her like a fool. I grabbed the mop, swinging it hard into Wendy's stomach. She yelped, her voice rising in panic. "Help! There's a crazy woman attacking me! You ugly woman, I'm telling the school!"

With no cameras around, I let loose, grappling with the two girls. "What are you pretending for? I heard everything you said!"

As water splashed onto Wendy's face, she inexplicably stopped struggling. Instead, she gripped my mop tightly and said, "Rachel Garner, if you've got an issue, then take it out on me!"

Just then, my mother burst in, delivering a stinging slap to my face in front of them. "Enough! How long are you going to act out?"

I tried to explain, but she slapped me again. "What more do you want to say? I don't want to hear it! Stop pretending!"

Under my furious and desolate gaze, she walked up to Wendy and held her hand while saying sweetly, "My dear, don't bother with this spoiled brat. Let's go shopping!"

Ignoring any explanation from me, my mother slapped me twice more before leaving with Wendy. I felt like I'd fallen into an icy lake, sensing that my future was bleak.

So, I became the subject of a school-wide announcement. My once-pristine grades were now tainted by bullying.

Fast forward to today—I had lost count of how long I had endured Wendy's torment. Recently, I'd begged my mother for an internship at her company, but she scolded me. "With your skills? What could you possibly achieve? Don't tell me you're planning to flirt with the guys there!"

I clenched my fists, desperate to prove myself, pleading for just one chance. I had a nagging feeling that Wendy had ulterior motives since she'd already secured an internship before me.

I collected evidence to show my mother, but instead, she accused me of slandering Wendy and lectured me. "You're so narrow-minded! Do you think everyone is as scheming as you? If you keep this up, I'll make sure you don't graduate! As for Wendy, she's not only interning; she's going to be my secretary!"

Trapped in the restroom, I shot Wendy a cold glare. "Wendy, my mother has no idea who you really are. I do, and I know you're up to something again!"

She had already made my life miserable more times than I could count—cutting my thigh, making me drink from the toilet, forcing me to dance embarrassingly. I'd been through it all, and I realized that just putting up with it wasn't working.

Time was running out for me. I had been diagnosed with late-stage cancer.

I wanted to tell my mother immediately, but it had been ages since I last saw her. Since Wendy entered her life, I had become invisible.

Wendy chuckled, and behind her trailed several tall, muscular men. Their arms were thicker than my thighs, and one of them approached me.

He gripped my wrist tightly, dragging me deeper into the restroom. I struggled in agony on the floor. In a moment of panic, I dialed my mother's number, my designated emergency contact. But no matter how many times I tried, the call wouldn't go through.