My mom always dragged me to fancy restaurants, forcing me to eat foods I was severely allergic to until I was frothing at the mouth.
Then, she’d whip out her phone, filming my convulsing, gasping, suffocating misery, and demand a hefty payout from the restaurant.
Scared of a lawsuit or bad press, the owners always caved, settling quickly.
Every single time, she got away with it.
Until she met one cold-hearted owner who just wouldn’t budge.
My mom had my EpiPen in her purse, but she just *watched* me, her own daughter, die right there in that restaurant.
When I opened my eyes again, I was back to the day before I died.
1
“Mia, sweetie, how about Mom takes you to get your favorite tiramisu?”
My mom’s voice, light as a feather, drifted into my ear. My body stiffened.
I opened my eyes to see my hand gripping a paintbrush, dragging a harsh black line across the paper.
In my past life, my mom’s sweetness terrified me. She never had a kind word for me, not unless she needed me to be “sick.” That was the only time her voice would soften like this.
A chocolate bar, my favorite brand, was placed on my drawing paper.
Just like last time.
I knew this chocolate wasn’t a treat; it was a death knell.
“Mom, didn’t you say last time was… the very last time?”
She gave an impatient ‘tsk,’ the sweetness in her voice vanishing instantly.
“Who knew your Grandma needed such expensive surgery? If I don’t get some money, how will she pay for her medication next month?”
“Come on, sweetie, just help Mom out one more time. I promise, this is absolutely, positively the last time!”
She’d said those words countless times before.
One winter, she wanted to scam a newly opened five-star hotel.
She poured an entire packet of crushed nuts into my corn chowder.
I choked on the spot, my face turning blue, my body convulsing.
The hotel manager was terrified and paid a hundred thousand dollars on the spot.
That night, I spent in the intensive care unit.
Through the glass, I watched her, happily chattering on her new phone outside.
I begged her, *please* stop. I was really dying.
She screamed at me:
“You ungrateful brat! I worked my fingers to the bone raising you, and now you won’t even earn some money for your Grandma’s medical bills?”
“If your deadbeat dad had paid child support on time, would I even *be* doing this?”
Because of the hives and track marks from all the injections, I never dared wear skirts or short-sleeved shirts in the summer.
I used to be the class president, with excellent grades, but my teacher removed me because I missed school so often.
My classmates isolated me, calling me a liar, saying I always faked illness for sympathy.
I wanted to tell them the truth so badly, but I couldn’t.
Mom said Grandma needed the money to save her life. If I spoke up, Grandma would die.
From a very young age, I knew my mom had a hard time raising me alone.
So, when she first used my allergies to “make money,” I didn’t fight back.
I wanted to be useful to her. I wanted her to have an easier life.
That way, she wouldn’t abandon me.
But again and again, the restaurants she took me to became fancier, the payouts she demanded grew higher.
And my “illnesses” became more frequent.
The once lively, laughing girl I was became silent and terrified of going out.
Last month, at a Japanese restaurant, she secretly sprinkled peanut dust into my Udon noodles.
I went into anaphylactic shock, my throat swelling shut, making it impossible to breathe.
I writhed on the floor in agony, feeling like some grotesque spectacle.
But she just calmly filmed me, negotiating with the restaurant owner.
Only after the thirty thousand dollar settlement hit her PayPal account did she finally give me the life-saving EpiPen.
I came back from the brink of death, lying in the hospital for three days.
On that lonely, frigid night, I lay alone in my hospital bed, cold, hungry, and in pain, my stomach felt like a nest of angry, squirming worms.
That’s when I vaguely thought, *maybe it’d be better if I just died*.
And then, I did.
God knows why I was brought back again.
This time, I wouldn’t be so foolish.
2.
My mom saw me lost in thought, figuring I didn’t want to go.
A beautifully wrapped music box was placed in front of me.
She clasped her hands together, a pleading smile on her face:
“Mia, just help Mom one more time. I promise, once we get enough for Grandma’s surgery, we’ll never do this again!”
She was usually so cheap with me; a five-dollar chocolate bar was her limit.
Today, she was giving me such an expensive gift. She clearly knew this particular scam was no ordinary one.
Sure enough, the next second, she spoke.
“Mia, this restaurant, it’s new, an all-you-can-eat seafood place. Super fancy, like two hundred dollars per person.”
“But the owner… he seems pretty tough. So this time, we need to make it *really* convincing.”
“No, I’m not going.”
I trembled, backing away repeatedly.
Of course I knew how ruthless that owner was.
That’s where I died.
As I lay on the ground, frothing at the mouth, that owner’s eyes were like daggers, ready to flay someone alive.
My mom filmed my horrific state with her phone, screaming at the top of her lungs.
The owner, hands on his hips, ignored her completely.
It was only when I was floating above the scene that I saw the owner’s face change. He probably hadn’t expected my mom would truly let me die.
Someone among the diners had already called 91
The ambulance arrived, and so did the police.
“Officer, look, these are the mother and daughter from that scam video online!”
“Yeah, it’s them! I saw the video from the Japanese restaurant last time, too.”
“Right? They even went viral on local Twitter, and they still have the nerve to pull this stunt?”
“That poor kid, stuck with a mom like that. What awful luck.”
Turns out, someone had recorded my mom and me during our last scam at the Japanese restaurant and posted it online.
My mom just didn’t know it and had walked right into a trap.
Reborn, how could I possibly jump back into that death trap?
I fell to my knees, clutching my mom’s leg, pleading desperately:
“Mom, please, let’s not go, okay? If we go this time, I’ll really die…”
I cried, feeling hopeless, wishing she’d show a shred of pity.
But my mom impatiently kicked me away. My head slammed into the corner of the table, instantly forming a huge bump.
She loomed over me, then *slapped* across my face, swelling it even more.
Her eyes held no tenderness, only disgust and contempt.
“Worthless thing! What are you crying for?! I raised you all these years, and now you won’t even do this one thing I ask!”
Clutching my swollen face, I sobbed, slurring my words:
“Mom, we’ve done this so many times. Maybe… maybe people have already posted videos of us online.”
*Slap!* Another blow landed.
“You’re talking nonsense! Are you cursing me?”
It was the sound of her own deep-seated guilt.
My heart grew colder, inch by inch.
Seeing my vacant eyes and lack of response, she finally ripped off her disguise, losing patience.
“Last chance, are you going or not?”
Her voice was icy.
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