Mom's Over Obsession

My name is Wendy Lincoln, and the person I hate most in this world is my mom, Linda Clark. It's not because she's poor, nor because she's cruel. It was because of that constant excuse of "for your own good." In my last life, it was these two phrases that drove me to jump from the tenth floor. At two in the morning on the day I came back to life, the hum of a vacuum cleaner suddenly started in my room. I snapped my eyes open, my nails digging deep into my palm, the pain instantly bringing tears to my eyes. It wasn't a dream—I really had come back. Back to three days before the civil service re-exam, back to before all the tragedies had spiraled into their worst. At this exact time in my last life, Linda Clark barged into my room every single day at four in the morning to "clean up." I was scared it would mess up my studying, so I begged her to let it slide for just one day. But she soaked my clothes in insecticide overnight and then went on a mad cleaning spree in the living room at two a.m., making so much noise I couldn't get any sleep. The next day, while cycling to the re-examination, I felt dizzy and accidentally hit an old lady. I was late for the re-exam, got disqualified, and ended up paying five thousand—that was my savings from half a year. After failing the civil service exam, I spent a month searching for a job and finally got an interview invite from a state-owned enterprise. Right before the online interview, I even knelt down to beg her—just for one hour, please don't come into my room. She promised with confidence, but the moment the HR manager started asking questions, there was a knock on the door. I quickly explained there was construction downstairs, but twenty minutes later, with a loud bang, the door was smashed open. Linda Clark stormed in carrying a dripping wet rag, ignoring my attempts to stop her and marched straight to the computer. Water spilled onto the keyboard, the computer went black, and just like that, my job opportunity vanished. I grabbed her by the window and yelled, "I don't want you to do this! Are you trying to kill me?" She sat on the floor crying, "My life is so hard! I do all the housework, and you ungrateful little brat still think I'm a burden!" My dad, James Lincoln, barged in and yanked my hair, slapping me so hard my mouth filled with blood and a tooth fell to the floor. My sister, Vivian Lincoln, wearing high heels, kicked me in the stomach: "Blame it on yourself for being useless. If you want to die, do it yourself—don't drag mom into this!" Vivian hates me because Linda Clark taught her that 'a woman has to be diligent.' After she got married, she worked until 3 a.m., and my brother-in-law had a nervous breakdown and divorced her. Linda Clark said I was a jinx, so Vivian figured if I died, she could get back together with her ex. That day, I was knocked out and thrown onto the unheated balcony to freeze all night. When I woke up, I secretly took my ID and a few hundred dollars, rented a small room, and hid away. But Linda Clark wouldn't let me be. She posted a "Missing Daughter" notice online, calling me unfilial and got relatives to hunt me down. They found me in the middle of the night, and she stormed into the rented room with three old men. I was weak from sleeping pills, helplessly watching her pull off my quilt and tear at my nightgown: "Young people nowadays are lazy, and I have to take care of everything." The old men groped me everywhere and even filmed videos online, titled "The laziest woman on the internet." I wanted to call the police. James Lincoln and Vivian Lincoln smashed my cell phone: "They're the blind dates your mom set up!" They locked me in the room with the old man. I watched the face getting closer and closer, climbed out the window, and jumped. The moment I jumped, I had only one thought: in my next life, I'll make them taste all the pain I've suffered. ... The vacuum was still running, and Linda Clark's voice came from outside the door: "Wendy, I am tidying up your room. You can sleep a bit longer." I took a deep breath and swallowed back my sobs. This time around, I won't be begging her anymore. I quietly shoved my ID, bank card, and review materials into my backpack. Once she was busy in the kitchen, I tiptoed to the door and bolted out of the house. I rented the same tiny single room as last time, way across town. I locked the door, leaned against it, and finally let out a breath.