My Harvard-Law Mom Slapped Me Over 3×4—So I Stripped Away Her Elite Title Overnight Chapter 03

My Harvard-Law Mom Slapped Me Over 3×4—So I Stripped Away Her Elite Title Overnight Chapter 03

“She’s six.” Grandpa’s voice was so calm it was terrifying.

Mom didn’t answer.

I crouched in the corner, tears falling on the floor. No sound. No trace.

Half an hour later, Grandma asked again.

Mom finally lost it. She pulled out her phone and checked.

The little blue dot had stopped at an unfamiliar spot. Not moving.

“She must be there,” Mom said dismissively.

“Where? What place is that?” Grandpa leaned in to see.

Mom turned off the screen.

“Dad, I need to talk to you and Mom about something serious. Nora is starting elementary school soon. You can’t keep spoiling her.”

Grandma was distracted. “Spoiling? How have we spoiled her?”

Mom put down her bowl. “She can’t even do three times four. When Connor was her age, he was already doing middle school math. What good is singing and drawing all day?”

I hid behind Grandma. Every time Mom used this tone, a storm was coming.

Grandma said quietly, “Susan, she’s only six. You have to take it slow—”

“Slow?” Mom’s voice shot up. “Do you know what she got on her math test last month? Forty-three percent. Out of a hundred.”

“When I was applying to law school, was there a single subject I scored below ninety? Your father got straight A’s. Connor takes after us. He’s a natural. But Nora?”

She paused. Her mouth twisted down.

“Loser.”

That word came out of her mouth, and my whole body shook.

I ran at her and screamed, “Mom, I’m not stupid! Connor did it on purpose! He told me three times four is eleven! He was trying to trick me!”

No one heard.

Connor was eating an orange on the couch. He smirked.

Then he reached into the couch cushion and pulled out a little notebook.

“Mom! Look what I found!”

It was my notebook.

I’d drawn pictures of me and Connor, me and Mom and Dad, me and Grandma and Grandpa. Every page was in color. Every page had smiling faces.

On the cover, I’d written in crooked letters: A Happy Family.

Mom snatched it. She flipped through two pages, and her face got darker.

“Drawing again?”

She clutched the notebook and pointed at Grandma and Grandpa. “Look at this. This is what your ‘good granddaughter’ does. No studying. Just drawing useless crap all day.”

Grandma’s face flushed. “She draws very well. Her teacher, Ms. Taylor, says—”

“What good is Ms. Taylor’s praise? Does it get her into a good college? Does it help her get a job?”

Mom tore out the pages, one by one.

I lunged. “Mom, don’t! Please! I won’t draw anymore. I promise. I’ll study hard. Just don’t tear it.”

Pieces of paper fell to the floor.

The last page was a drawing of our family photo. Six people standing under a big tree, holding hands.

Grandma, Grandpa, Mom, Dad, Connor — and me.

Mom didn’t even look. She tore it into tiny shreds.

“Singing, drawing — it’s all a waste of time. I want both of my kids to go to top universities. I want them to have a future. Not to sit around daydreaming.”

Grandpa’s hands were shaking. Grandma’s eyes were red.

They both looked at Dad.

He sat at the table, poking a cookie with his fork. After a long time, he said, “Nora really should focus on school. Hobbies can wait.”

That sentence hit me like ice water.

I slowly floated up. I looked down at the torn paper on the floor.

Mom. Dad. I’m sorry.

I’m not the kind of kid you wanted.

Don’t be mad.

Connor will make you proud.

Dingdong.

The doorbell rang.

Mom stood up. “That must be Nora. Let’s see how many steps she took.”

She opened the door.

Two police officers stood outside.

One held a little camera covered in blood. The other held a photograph.

The photo showed a little girl in a thin sweater, lying on the asphalt of a highway.

Her hair was spread out.

A dark red stain spread beside her.

Mom’s hand slipped off the doorknob.

“Excuse me, ma’am. Is this your child?”