Chapter 4

Directly below my crumbling apartment block, a bright crimson banner was strung between two lampposts. Huge, bold block letters screamed down at the courtyard:

"Don't be afraid, baby! Mommy is right here to help you beat obesity and find your confidence again!"

Beneath that horrifying banner stood my mother, Helen, clad in head-to-toe neon pink workout spandex. She was leading a group of local retirees in an aggressive aerobics routine set to blasting pop music.

"One, two, three, four, burn those calories! Two, two, three, four, say goodbye to the fat and find the real you!"

She shouted the slogans with booming enthusiasm, her face practically glowing with saintly martyrdom.

During a water break, the neighborhood seniors circled around her. Wiping her sweat with a towel, she broke into theatrical, tearful sobs for her captive audience.

"My poor girl... she's just so insecure... Kids mocked her growing up because of her weight, and it messed with her head. That's why she ran away from home..."

"My heart is shattered into pieces. I quit my job, gave up everything, just to be by her side and pull her out of the dark. Wherever she goes, I go. Until she gets thin, I'm never leaving!"

Her Oscar-worthy performance earned unanimous adoration.

"Oh, what a saintly mother!"

"Your daughter doesn't know how lucky she is to have you!"

"Kids these days are so reckless. She'll realize you were right once she grows up."

Hiding in the shadows of the stairwell, I listened to the misled neighbors gossiping about me and singing Helen's praises.

"She's talking about that new girl on the fifth floor, right? She does look a bit soft around the edges."

"I saw her buying greasy takeout yesterday. No wonder her poor mother is worried sick."

"Someone should tell that girl to go down and apologize. What an incredible mom!"

In their eyes, I was a spoiled, insecure monster who had run away because she couldn't take constructive criticism. Helen, meanwhile, was the selfless mother sacrificing her life to save her daughter from self-destruction.

A few busybody neighbors even took it upon themselves to keep tabs on me and report my movements directly to her.

My prison hadn't vanished. It had merely expanded from a single house to an entire neighborhood.

Still, I had to survive.

I found a dishwashing job at a small diner down the street that offered shift meals. The owner, an outspoken middle-aged woman named Sarah, liked that I was quick with my hands and kept my mouth shut.

The diner's grease-slicked, noisy back kitchen became my new sanctuary.

Yet barely a day passed before that sanctuary was breached.

Helen tracked down my workplace in no time.

Instead of causing a scene or storming inside, she opted for something far worse.

Every single day when the lunch rush hit, she carried a folding stool across the street and sat beneath an oak tree directly opposite the diner.

She didn't say a word. She never stepped inside.

She just sat there, taking tiny, calculated nibbles from a raw cucumber, fixing me with an agonizing gaze—a blend of sorrow, martyrdom, and intense "encouragement"—as I scrubbed plates behind the kitchen window.

Her stare felt like a pair of high-powered surveillance spotlights piercing through the glass, through the crowd, pinning me by the shoulder blades.

Sarah and the kitchen staff caught on quickly to the strange woman lurking outside.

"Chloe, hon... is that your mom out there?" Sarah asked cautiously.

I could only nod, my cheeks burning with humiliation.

To make matters worse, the following afternoon, Helen had a delivery driver hand Sarah a neatly printed "Low-Calorie Employee Meal Guideline."

It read:

"Monday: Boiled chicken breast with plain broccoli (no oil, no salt)."

"Tuesday: Steamed cod with sliced cucumber (minimal vinegar)."

"Wednesday: One slice of whole wheat bread with skim milk."

...

Sarah stared at the paper, looking caught between a laugh and a groan. "Chloe... is your mom worried I'm trying to fatten you up?"

The rest of the kitchen staff started shooting sideways glances at me. They whispered in corners, treating me like some kind of freak.