My Harvard-Law Mom Slapped Me Over 3×4—So I Stripped Away Her Elite Title Overnight Chapter 01

My Harvard-Law Mom Slapped Me Over 3×4—So I Stripped Away Her Elite Title Overnight Chapter 01

“What’s three times four?” my brother suddenly turned around and asked me on the highway.

I opened my mouth. “That’s ten…”

Before I could finish, Mom slapped me across the face. Her fingernails scraped my cheekbone, and it stung like fire.

“I graduated from Harvard Law. Your father has a finance PhD from Stanford. Your brother won a gold medal in the National Math Olympiad at nine. And you hesitate over three times four?”

Mom’s voice cut like a knife.

“Loser.”

I covered my face. Tears poured down.

“Mom, it’s not my fault. Connor told me three times four doesn’t equal twelve. He said it’s eleven.”

“Shut up.” Mom yanked the car door open. “You can’t even do basic multiplication without getting confused. Is your head full of mush? Get out. Walk to the rest stop yourself.”

The cold wind rushed in, and she shoved me out.

******

My knee hit the pavement. My pants ripped.

I scrambled up and ran after the car.

“Mom! Mom, don’t leave me!”

The window rolled down halfway. Mom tossed out a little camera.

“This is a body cam. It’s recording the whole time, so don’t even think about slacking off.”

“It’s about a mile to the rest stop. Connor did the math. Your stride is about a foot and a half. That’s thousands of steps.”

My brother’s voice floated out of the car, smug in a way I didn’t understand.

“Stay in the emergency lane. Be careful.”

Dad said that one sentence. Then the window rolled up.

The taillights flashed red, then grew smaller and smaller until they disappeared into the dark highway.

“Mom… I’m so cold.”

I looked down. I was only wearing a thin sweater.

My coat was still in the car.

The weather forecast said it would be ten degrees below zero tonight.

I clutched the little camera and spoke into the lens.

“Mom, I’m not a loser. Ms. Taylor says I have the best voice in class. She calls me Little Songbird. She says everyone has their own strengths.”

No one answered.

I sniffled and started counting my steps.

“One. Two. Three.”

My breath turned to white fog. My fingers went numb.

At eight hundred steps, my legs started shaking. Every step made my knees ache.

The cut on my knee kept bleeding. It soaked through my pants, and the cold wind made it hurt so bad I bit my lip.

A thousand steps.

My legs felt like concrete.

Twelve hundred steps.

I tripped over something and fell flat on the ground.

My chin hit the asphalt. I tasted blood.

I lay there, crying at the little red light on the camera.

“Mom, it hurts so much. Can I rest for ten seconds?”

We played this game at home. Connor got chocolate for right answers. I got hit for wrong ones.

When Mom punished me, she made me count to ten. By the time I reached ten, it was over.

I used to think ten seconds took forever.

Now ten seconds were gone in a blink.

I counted to ten and pushed myself up.

Blood from my knee had soaked through my sock. Every step was agony.

I told myself: just a little more. You’ll make it to the rest stop.

Just hold on a little longer. You’ll see Grandma and Grandpa.

Grandma said she made my favorite — chocolate chip cookies.

But my body got heavier. My vision blurred.

I didn’t realize I’d wandered into the middle of the road.

There was a blinding light behind me.

I turned my head.

A big truck was barreling toward me.

No time to move.

Something slammed into me. Then I was floating.

It didn’t hurt anymore.

Nothing hurt anymore.

I couldn’t even feel the cold.