Mom's Vengeance Book

My mom has a grudge book. The front pages meticulously list every penny she spent raising me. The back? A detailed inventory of my every transgression. In that book, I have many names: Leech. Little shit. Ungrateful wretch. She simultaneously yearned for my success, so I could repay her, and for my demise.

Then, I died. My vital organs harvested, leaving behind an empty shell and an $80,000 check for her. Mom, I've returned your money and my life. Are you satisfied now?

1.

A blizzard raged the day before Christmas Eve. I finally managed to pound on the front door until Mom opened it, revealing her and Sarah Miller standing there. Sarah’s my cousin, three days younger than me. After her parents died in a car crash, she’d been living with us. My parents adored her. Absolutely adored her.

Mom sneered at my appearance. "Trying to look intellectual, are we? Glasses won't hide what you are. You can try to act all demure, but you're still a tramp." Tramp. Another new nickname for her collection. That grudge book of hers had pages filled with them. Leech, brat, ungrateful daughter… now tramp.

Snowmelt dripped down my face, my fingers and toes numb with cold. They just stood there, appraising me like a defective product. Dad finally emerged from the kitchen, smelling of cooking oil, and pulled me inside. He wiped his hands on his apron, then thrust it at me. "Why so late? Don't just stand there, get started on dinner!"

The kitchen door swung shut behind me. The roar of the exhaust fan couldn't drown out their laughter. It pounded in my ears like a drum, making my chest ache. My hand twitched, and a bottle of soy sauce slipped, shattering on the floor. The crash brought Mom rushing in. Without a word, she slapped me hard.

"Ashley Davis! It's just making dinner! Do you have to be so clumsy? What's with the long face? Who are you trying to impress?"

You're right, Mom. I am dying. The glasses flew off my face, blurring my vision. I groped for them, cutting my finger on a shard of glass as Mom continued her tirade. "If you don't want to come home, then don't! Am I holding you back from… whatever it is you do? You act like I owe you something!"

I found my glasses, put them on, and wiped my bleeding finger on the apron. "Mom," I mumbled. "Who doesn't want to come home for the holidays? It's not that I don't want to be here. You stopped sending me money. How am I supposed to pay for tuition if I don't work?" I added, "And I wasn’t being clumsy or trying to act demure. I’m sick…"

Mom, I'm sick. Terminal brain cancer. The tumor is pressing on my nerves, affecting my vision and coordination. But Mom didn't let me finish.

"Sick, sick, sick! Don't talk about sickness on Christmas Eve! It’s bad luck! I wish you hadn't come home at all!"

I gave a bitter laugh. "Too late. Just try to bear with me."

Mom shrieked and raked her freshly manicured nails across my cheek. "David! Look at your daughter! She’s telling me, her own mother, to bear with her! How much lo...