Why did I know that?​​
Probably because once when I was a child, home alone with a high fever,
I went out looking for my mother.

I found her at Uncle Charles' house next door.
When I tried to enter, ​Amanda blocked me at the door, snarling:
"Auntie Shirley and my dad are sleeping. You’re not allowed to go in."
"Your mother will be my mother from now on. Get lost, now!"
​Furious, I shoved Amanda aside and stormed in.​​
There was my mother – ​undressed.

I screamed, demanding why she betrayed my father, why she wanted to be Amanda’s mother!
My mother responded by ​slapping me so hard I crashed to the floor.​​
She glared viciously, cursing:
"You little bitch! Now that your father’s finally dead, can’t I find another man?"

"If it weren’t for you, I could’ve had my own happiness. You’re a burden! A troublemaker! Why don’t you just die!"
​My head throbbed, my body burned with fever.​​
I collapsed unconscious on the ground.
When I woke, ​this memory was gone​ – and we’d moved away.
​Now, those lost memories flooded back, drowning me in pain.
Yet this arrogant girl dared to wave my mother’s money in my face, treating me like a beggar!
"So now you remember me," Amanda sneered, stepping closer.
"Do you know why we’re at the same school?"
"Because I told Auntie to change your college application. To force you into a school worse than mine."
"Why should you get into an Ivy League? I want you beneath me – forever!"
​My last defense shattered.​​
To my mother, my entire future meant less than Amanda’s whim.
Amanda got everything.
​I’d worn the same pair of shoes, mended and re-mended, for three years.​​
WHY?!
​Amanda relished my devastation.​​
"These tampons on the ground? Keep them. Should last you months."
Then she thrust her phone in my face – ​playing a video.​​
​The video:​​
Me in junior high, ​bloodstains visible on my pants, begging girls for a tampon or pad.
All because my mother rationed me to ​one tampon per day to "save money."​​
But the girls recoiled like I was diseased.
No one helped.
​Because my mother’s neglect of my hygiene led to infections, hospital visits, and rumors.​​
Rumors that spread like poison:
"She has gynecological diseases from an indiscreet lifestyle."
Girls shunned me. Boys mocked me...
​As shame and rage choked me, trying to flee—​
The familiar Maserati pulled up.
My mother stepped out in ​high-end custom-made garments, looking every inch the noblewoman.
A stranger to the mother I knew.
​She rushed to Amanda, frantic:​​
"Baby, who bullied you? Do you need more spending money?"
Then she turned. Saw me. Froze.
"...Elena? Aren’t you supposed to be delivering food?"