Mother's Chains: Bound by Blood, Choked by Control

Chapter 1

1

I got accepted into college.

Even though it was still close to home, I saw it as a kind of freedom.

I arrived on campus a day early to register.

As I stood in the spacious and bright dormitory, a wave of joy washed over me.

Unfortunately, that joy was short-lived.

During the first week, my mom called me every two hours, like clockwork.

As long as I wasn't asleep, she'd call.

There was an extra class added to the schedule over the weekend, so I put my phone on silent.

After class, I saw that I had missed twenty-three calls.

Twenty of those were from my mom, and the other three were from the only friend I had kept in touch with since childhood.

She sent me a voice message:

"Lizzy, where are you? Your mom is freaking out! It seems urgent, call her back as soon as you hear this."

I hesitated, staring at my mom's number on the screen, unsure what to expect.

I felt anxious about what would happen next.

What was in store for me? A furious scolding or tearful complaints?

This time, I got the latter.

Her desperate cries came through the phone, piercing my ears like needles. "Elizabeth! Do you know I've been looking for you!"

"I was so scared... Why didn't you answer my call? What would I do if something happened to you?"

At that moment, a surge of guilt washed over me.

I softened my tone, saying, "Mom, they added an extra class without notice. I didn't tell you, but I'm fine."

She didn't stop crying, in fact, she started to cry even harder. "You want to scare me to death, don't you? How can you be so selfish? You don't care about your mother at all!"

I bit my lip and fell silent.

I let her vent out. When she finished, I sincerely apologized.

"I'm sorry, Mom. I was wrong. I won't do it again. Don't crying, please."

She scolded me a little longer before finally hanging up.

Outside, the sun shone brightly, but in such nice weather, I felt suffocated.

It felt like someone was choking me.

My mom didn't have anything urgent at all.

Only because she couldn't reach me for two hours, she acted like the sky was falling.

2

Since that day, she has been calling me more often.

She even started calling in the middle of the night just to hear me say, "I'm fine. I'm sleeping now."

Lights went out at eleven, and I got into bed on time, closing my eyes.

Then, at one in the morning, she called.

At three, she called again.

At five, she called once more.

She even wanted to know what dreams I had in those two hours, if I drooled, and if I was covered properly with the blanket.

She seemed not to know the obvious fact that I couldn't sleep at all.

The anxious buzzing of my phone felt like the haunting whispers of a ghost.

She acted like inhuman. Because as far as I saw, she didn't seem to need sleep at all. And as her child, she presumed I didn't either.

Not wanting to disturb my roommates, I curled up in my blanket and answered the phone with the least volume.

But it would still inevitably affect them.

That day, I returned to the dorm an hour earlier than usual because my stomach felt uneasy, twisting with dry heaves and nausea.

I had been squatting in the bathroom for half an hour and still couldn't throw up anything.

Suddenly, someone pushed open the bathroom door and walked in.

Through the thin door, I heard my two roommates talking.

One of them said with a sarcastic tone, "Is Elizabeth a grown-up baby? So clingy to her mom. Why not just pack her mom in a suitcase on the first day?"

The other chimed in with the same mockery in her voice. "Exactly! She can't be having that... What do you call it? Mother complex! Right? Hahaha..."

The sound of running water mixed with their wild laughter.

I had long grown used to their stinging insults.

Because of my mom, I had endured the disdain and sarcasm from everyone around me, without even a single friend to confide in.

In the next moment, I pushed open the bathroom door, catching them off guard.

They froze for a second and then fell silent to pretend nothing had happened.

I said, "I'm sorry. I know some of my behaviors are quite disturbing. I'll try not to."

I added, "But if you have an issue with me, I hope you can say it to my face... okay?"

They hung their heads in silence, continuing with their things without responding to me.

3.

My dad passed away when I was young.

From the time I could walk, my mom had been controlling and watching my every move.

She had a strict zero-tolerance policy with me. If I deviated by as much as a hair's breadth from what she said, she would punish me harshly.

She proclaimed that her discipline was a one-time crackdown, ensuring I'd never stray from the line again.

In her words, "When I say laugh, you laugh. When I say cry, those tears better fall."

I tried to resist, but whenever I showed any signs of defiance, she'd swiftly snuff it out and come back twice as fierce.

Her voice would thunder through my defenses, "Why? Because I'm your mom!"

After the college entrance exam, my results were excellent.

For an entire month, she paraded my success around the neighborhood like it was her own triumph.

When it came time to choose a major, I had my sights set on studying law in a bustling city on the West Coast.

The moment those words left my mouth, my mom's brows knitted into a deeper frown.

That furrow was my signal—she wasn't pleased.

"That far from home?" She protested. "How inconvenient for me to visit you, with travel being so expensive!"

She forced me to attend a nearby university and choose a major she favored.

But when I said I wanted to live in the dorms, that's when she flipped out.

She'd never been away from me for more than 24 hours, and it terrified her to think about it.

She insisted that I answer her calls at any time except when I was sleeping.

Her demands were unreasonable.

What pushed me to despair was how I had fulfilled her dream of getting into a prestigious university, yet she couldn't honor her promise to loosen the reins, even just a bit.

That day, our clash reached unprecedented heights.

Staring into her bewildered eyes, I unleashed a torrent of pent-up frustration, "I'm your daughter, not some prisoner! I'm a person, a real, living being!" My voice trembled as I declared.

"I'm not just a pawn in the Sims, subject to your every whim!

"Admit it! You're the selfish one; you don't love me at all, you just want to control me to relive your own life!"

It all came rushing out—the bottled-up resentment of nearly two decades.

She stared at me, stunned.

Then, as though jolted back to reality, she stormed toward me, raising her hand high in that all-too-familiar way.

Her fingers were laced with grime, and every inch of her palm was a landscape of thick, yellow calluses.

Just as her hand was poised to strike, I mustered all my strength and pushed her away.

She toppled to the ground, her eyes blazing with furious anger, her teeth grinding audibly.

"Look at you, acting all big now! Got the guts to raise a hand against your mother?" she spat.

She awkwardly tried to get up from the floor, but her weak arms couldn't support her bulky body.

I couldn't help but laugh. "I'm pushing twenty, Mom. You think you can still lay hands on me like the old days?"

4.

My advantage evaporated the moment she managed to haul herself off the floor.

Like a deranged beast, she lunged at the vanity mirror, her head a battering ram crashing against the glass with relentless force.

The mirror splintered into a kaleidoscope of shards, snowflakes spinning in the tense, suffocating air.

The grin on my face withered into disbelief.

She screamed, "Would it make you happy if I just killed myself? Is that what you want? Watch me do it right here, right now!"

The broken mirror started to stain with bright red blood.

I scrambled over and wrapped my arms around her waist. It was too wide for my arms to encircle, so I ended up clawing desperately at her clothes, begging silently for her madness to cease.

Her head snapped toward me, revealing a forehead now a gory mess embedded with shards of glass.

Waves of that all-too-familiar guilt and self-reproach engulfed me once more.

Her eyes, bloodshot with both anger and hurt, bore into mine as she shouted, "Why hold me back? Isn't it my death you desire? Aren't you dying to see me gone?"

I pulled her back down to the ground, panting as I glared at her.

I stood on the broken glass to block her way to the broken mirror. 

But that didn't stop her from self-destructive revenge against me.

She began to raise her hand and slap herself hard.

The sharp sound of her slaps echoed in the cramped little room, mixing with her tearful complaints.

I broke down and cried, pulling at her arm and repeatedly apologizing, "I'm sorry! I was wrong, Mom! I'm really sorry!"

I started begging her, and only then did she agree to go to the hospital with me.

As she bandaged her wounds, she sneered, "You better understand just how wrong you've been and never—do you hear me?—never defy me again!"

In that moment, clarity struck like a bolt of lightning—I was a mere puppet, thoughts and will not my own, but hers entirely.

I forced a smile that looked sad than crying and said, "I understand, Mom. I'll do everything your way."

Now, I had gotten used to my mom calling every two hours.

This schedule had become etched into my bones.

Even when my phone was on silent, I could pick it up the moment she called.

Again, my mom called during class, and I quietly slipped out the back door to report to her as usual.

When I returned to the classroom, Professor Christine Lewis was already waiting for me at the back door.

Christine was a matriarch of academic rigor, respected and revered, yet never one for idle smiles.

She frowned at me and said, half-jokingly and half-seriously, "Elizabeth Clark, tell me, what pressing matter keeps pulling you away from the class and snubbing this sixty-year-old pedant?"

The other students in the classroom turned to look at me and whispered among themselves.

I muttered, "I'm sorry, Prof. Lewis. It was my mom calling. I need to answer every two hours."

5.

Christine staggered.

From the look in her eyes, it was clear she had never heard a family bond so absurd before.

But what she found ridiculous had long been my everyday reality.

She cleared her throat and asked me to return to my seat before resuming her lecture.

After class, she called me into her office.

Her office was a separate room that included a restroom and a lounge area.

I sat on the sofa, taking small sips of the hot tea she offered me, feeling uneasy. After a brief pause, she said, "Elizabeth... would you care to share your circumstances with me?"

Christine was a good teacher.

Her assignments were notoriously tough, not from a desire to burden but to challenge.

Enough attention in her class would make it not too hard to tackle.

On several occasions, she had generously praised my assignments in front of the class.

There was a palpable sense of value in her eyes—an educator's appreciation for a promising student.

She patted my shoulder and said, "It's okay if you don't want to talk. That's fine. I brought you here for another reason. For the upcoming math modeling competition, I've strongly recommended you to the department. Are you interested?"

I tightened my grip around the cup.

The hot tea slowly burned my palms as excitement stirred within me.

But I didn't know if my mom would agree to this opportunity.

Christine seemed to sense my hesitation. She frowned and said, "Young one, do what fuels your passion! If you stumble, there's me to catch you. What's there to fear?"

She continued, "You only live this life once. If you can't do what you want in this short life, then what's the point?"

She brushed a few strands of hair away from her face.

Christine was a woman who danced to her own tune.

Approaching sixty, yet she flaunted vibrant nails and hair dyed in hues that changed with her mood—from playful pink to steely blue-gray.

She often sat in her office, munching on spicy snacks while grading papers.

She lived freely and without constraints.

For the first time, I thought, "Why couldn't I?"

Perhaps it was her audacious spirit that stimulated me to do something unprecedented—I decided without asking for my mother's approval.

6.

I didn't tell my mom.

The thrill of harboring my very first secret in nearly two decades was exhilarating.

A seed of rebellion had nestled deep within me, starting to sink its roots.

With Christine as my advisor for the math modeling competition, it seemed only natural to relocate my study sessions from the library to her office.

On her balcony, she nurtured several pots of plants which I couldn't tell their names.

Yet, the vivid green sprouts were brimming with life, a constant reminder of resilience and growth.

When there were no classes, I would immerse myself in Christine's office, typing away at the computer surrounded by a stack of reports.

I'd often tell Christine to take a break, and she'd retort jokingly, insisting she needed to watch over me lest I slack off and lose the competition, tarnishing her reputation.

Her insights were always spot-on, cutting through confusion like a beacon of clarity.

She was my solitary lighthouse in an endless sea.

At eleven o'clock that night, I had already placed my hand on my phone, ready to press the answer button before my mom's call came through.

I pressed the button and said into the phone, "Mom, I'm fine. I'm already lying in bed, getting ready to sleep."

The lie slipped out so easily that it even surprised me.

Then I calmly answered all of my mom's questions like a ritual.

Yet, perhaps influenced by that mysterious connection between mother and daughter, she seemed to pick up on the nearly inaudible cracks in my voice.

She asked, "Are you lying to me? Are you really in the dorm? Show me on video right now!"

 I held back my panic and explained, "Mom, I am in the dorm. The lights are off now. It's pitch black, and you won't see anything."

I firmly refused her request for a video call.

She pointedly asked me, "Do you even speak a word of truth? So young, yet already full of lies! Video call me right now—don't make me repeat myself!"

 Christine, who had been silent beside me, suddenly snatched my phone away. She sneered at my mom, saying, "I'm Elizabeth's teacher. If I didn't know any better, I'd think your daughter was a criminal! She's doing an experiment in my office right now, so what's the problem?"

Christine continued, "What I mean is what the school means. You got it? If you have any complaints, talk with the administration. Goodbye!"

After hanging up, she silenced my phone and turned my face back toward the screen.

She said, "Work hard! No slacking off! As long as I'm here, no one is going to disturb you!"

This might have been the first time in my life that someone was willing to stand up for me.

Until now, all my classmates and teachers only offered silent pity or judgmental glances—not one dared to voice support.

They felt sorry for my situation and mocked my weakness, but no one ever spoke up for me.

I began to ignore my mom's calls.

Even when I did answer and faced her barrage of scolding, I would simply say, "I'm busy; don't bother me unless it's urgent."

I started to understand the meaning of dignity and the difference between being an independent individual and just a mere appendage.

Bit by bit, I reclaimed the space she had occupied and taken from me.

Just like before, my mom called my friends and even found my roommate's number.

My roommate silently handed me the phone, and even though she tried to hide the sympathy in her eyes, it was still obvious.

 I looked at her and said firmly, "You can just tell her I'm as well as dead."

7.

As the words left my lips, it was like fireworks ignited in my brain.

I had her number blocked, an act of defiance I thought marked my victory.

But just as I was savoring this small triumph, my mom appeared at my dorm one day, her arms laden with bags...

My roommate and I were chatting and laughing as we returned after class, and as soon as we opened the door, we saw her squatting on the floor packing things up.

My face went pale in an instant.

She shot me a glance and coldly said, "I've already applied to the administration to be your companion, and I'm moving into your dorm to live with you."

I desperately clawed at the doorframe, trying to wake myself up from this nightmare.

I asked her, "Why are you moving here? Isn't it fine for you to live at home? Are you doing this just to spite me?"

She replied, "Do you think I want to? Our houses are relocated, and it costs fifty to sixty thousand to move into a new place. The old place is broken and worn out. I have nowhere to live. I'm your mom, so what's wrong with moving into your dormitory?"

I had no idea what methods she used to get the application for companionship in my name.

My mind went blank, and the long-lost feeling of suffocation surged back.

She continued unperturbed, "Having me here with you is perfect. You can focus entirely on your studies while I handle everything else—washing clothes, making your bed, cleaning up every day..."

It took a moment for my roommates to process this unexpected announcement. When they did, they offered polite greetings, "Hello, Mrs. Clark, we're the roommates of Lizzy."

But my mom sneered in response, "You still know your manners? My daughter was always such a good, obedient girl until she started hanging around with you a lot! It's your influence that's led her astray!"

My roommates were caught off guard, stunned into silence. 

I was so angry that I quickly cut her off, "Mom! What are you talking about?"

She flared up like an agitated cat, "Am I wrong? Wasn't it after leaving home for college that you changed? If it isn't their fault, then whose is it?"

She unleashed a barrage of complaints about me, and I opened my mouth, trying to argue back.

But there she was, standing right in front of me, not just on the phone.

I felt like all the air had been sucked out of me, leaving me speechless and deflated.

My roommates exchanged glances and quickly returned to their own business.

Thanks to her, the slight improvement in my relationship with them instantly became worse.

And she continued, "Alright, I won't hold it against you for not answering my calls before."

Then she added, "Why are you still standing there? Come help me unpack!"

Her tone sounded like she was being generous and not holding a grudge against me.

Numbly, I pulled out her yellowed old clothes and expired jars of pickled vegetables from the woven bag sprawled on the floor. Piece by piece, they reminded me of everything I wished to forget.

I finally realized that no matter what I did, I would never break free from her control.

Like vines wrapped tightly, we existed in a grim, parasitic relationship.