After I died, my mom started to love me

Chapter 1

I was starving, dead, and all for a measly buck-fifty’s worth of congee when that car slammed into me.

Mom, of course, was holding court in her office, explaining fractions to a scholarship kid and probably handing over my freaking lunch to her.

My mom was a nationally recognized teacher. Emphasis on teacher, not mother.

Champion of the underprivileged, savior of struggling students.

She was, like, the best teacher in the world.

And the most checked-out mom. Ever.

She was all broken up inside about kids from the sticks not having enough to eat, not having decent clothes.

So I ate plain rice with whatever veggies were cheap and rocked sweaters with holes in the elbows, because, hey, I was lucky to even have elbows, and we needed to save money to help other people.

And in the end, she got her wish. I died on the road helping someone else.

Now she could feel the mom guilt she deserved but I no longer need it.

…

Mom, out of the blue, decided I should eat lunch with her in her office.

Said she’d made too much food, told me to skip the cafeteria and share with her.

I jumped at the chance because, to save money, I usually just got the cheapest veggie side and a pile of rice in the school lunchroom.

Eating Mom’s lunch meant actually having real food, like, different foods.

But the second I walked in, Sarah Miller, the scholarship kid, waltzed in with some math problem. Sarah. Freaking. Miller. She was Mom’s current pet project.

And just like I knew, Mom gave me that look, so I dutifully went to the door and waited.

Time ticked by. Sarah kept asking questions, one after another, showing no signs of leaving.

Mom saw me standing there. “Oh, uh, Amy, why don’t you just go ahead and eat in the cafeteria, honey?”

My mouth opened, then snapped shut. I just mumbled “Okay,” and bailed.

Mom was so lost in her teaching moment she didn’t notice that lunch at the cafeteria was over.

My stomach was eating itself, so I dug in my pocket, pulled out the dollar-fifty I had left, and went to the 7-Eleven across the street for their discount rice porridge. I’d been going hungry so long that my blood sugar always dropped when I was hungry.

Crossing the street, I didn’t see the car speeding up.

And that was that. I was flying through the air.

Next thing I knew, I was in the ER, staring down at myself, my face a bloody mess on the bed.

So, this was it, huh? I was dead?

I felt this weird lightness, my soul or whatever just floating upwards.

And before I knew it, I was back at school, my old stomping grounds.

I stopped at Mom’s office door, silently looking inside.

Mom and Sarah were having a blast, chowing down.

On the desk, three or four dishes of deliciousness were placed.

Mom lovingly put some food on Sarah’s plate, “Eat up, honey, you must be starving.”

My eyes darkened. Instinctively, I touched my stomach, remembering the gnawing hunger.

Even in this ghostly form, I felt empty.

Sarah beamed, “Mrs. Johnson, your food is amazing!”

Then, realizing what she said, she lowered her eyes.

“Too bad I can’t eat this every day. Your daughter must be so lucky.”

Hearing Sarah mention me, Mom made a face.

“I wish you were my daughter.”

“Unlike mine, who is spoiled, lazy, and doesn’t appreciate anything. I should have just flushed it and went back to bed on the day she was born!”

Mom’s words hit me like a punch to the gut, even in spirit form.

I never knew she thought of me that way.

I wasn’t really a picky eater. I just didn’t dare eat the good stuff, which is why I only ever grabbed one or two vegetables and piled on the rice.

From the time I was old enough to understand, Mom was always telling me how lucky I was to even have meat and vegetables on the table.

Those kids in the Appalachian mountains were gnawing on potatoes and cabbage, and I was unappreciative.

After hearing it so much, every time I had a meal with Mom, and I ate some meat or something, I felt this strange sense of guilt.

Later, I would only eat the cheapest veggies to fill myself up.

I thought if I was good and saved money, Mom would realize how responsible I was.

But I was wrong. She never noticed me.

As my mother, she was always biased towards outsiders.

I stared at Mom, watching her gentle treatment of Sarah.

The warm smile on her face had never been for me.

In my memories, she always wore a cold expression to me.

Anything I did, she could find fault in.

I never asked for much. I only wanted her to love me a little more.

Mom, you always say I don’t appreciate anything, and that you regret having me.

But if you knew I was already dead.

Would you have a little bit of pity for me?

After lunch, they chatted for a while, and Mom noticed Sarah’s worn-out clothes.

She thought for a moment, opened the drawer, and gave her two hundred dollars.

“Sarah, I’ve noticed you’ve been wearing those clothes for a while. Here’s two hundred dollars, go buy something new to wear.”

Sarah pretended to be shocked and refused, “Mrs. Johnson, I can’t take your money! I’m already so grateful that you take care of me. As long as my clothes keep me warm that’s all that matters.”

Mom insisted she take it, and sighed.

“You’re such a good kid. I can’t stand to see you suffer.”

Sarah thanked her repeatedly, smiling broadly.

I glanced down at myself. I was wearing this old sweater from some relative.

The collar was fraying, the pale yellow yarn faded and pilling from washing, looking ragged.

Before every test, Mom would promise to buy me new clothes if I did well.

But after one disappointment after another, I realized.

No matter how well I did, Mom would always, at the last minute, find someone who needed the money more than me, and then ask me to give it to her.

I had begged her, crying.

I said, “Mom, please, I really want a new sweater.”

I tried to hand her my perfect report card, to get back what was originally mine.

But she looked at me in disappointment, her eyes full of disgust.

“Isn’t it what you’re supposed to do?”

“You were born into a good family. I provide food and clothing for you. I provide you with a good learning environment. You should be grateful.”

“Have you thought about those kids in the mountains who can’t get enough to eat or wear?”

“What face do you have to compete with them for the money that can keep them warm? I shouldn’t have raised you for so long!”

But Mom, I’m your child.

Why can’t you love me a little more.

After that, I buried myself in my studies and dared not make any further demands.

I was afraid of Mom’s rejection, and I was afraid to prove that she loved others more than me.

So, until I died, I never got the new clothes I wanted.

But Sarah easily got what I dreamed of.

After lunch, I followed Mom into the classroom.

The first class in the afternoon was taught by my mother.

She was our class’s teacher, but no one in the class except me knew she was my mother.

Because she said that at any time, I could not say that I was her daughter at school.

She wanted to take care of the feelings of other students and not let me get special treatment.

But Mom, do you know?

A child who eats plain food and wears ragged clothes every day, how can they be treated with courtesy by their classmates?

The children’s world is not as simple as you think.

They always find the weakest in the group and bully him for no reason.

As soon as I entered the classroom, I noticed that my seat on the floor was full of trash, and there were stains on the table.

Mom was standing on the platform, looked around the classroom, and noticed the abnormality of my desk.

She frowned and asked the classmates.

“Isn’t Amy back yet?”

The students all shook their heads, not minding their own business, saying they hadn’t seen me.

Then Mom asked about my desk.

Seeing that they had been exposed, the few students who knew why lowered their heads and pretended to flip through their textbooks, and no one took the initiative to answer.

In fact, every time during class, the few students in the class who like to provoke trouble always come to make fun of me.

Throwing trash and pouring dirty water were common occurrences, but in the past I was afraid that Mom would discover these things.

Before class, I would clean up and pretend that nothing had happened.

But none of them expected that I, the object of their bullying, would die so suddenly, so naturally there was no way to clean up the desk.

Seeing everyone silent, Sarah, the poor student whom Mom had carefully tutored in the office, raised her hand cautiously.

With an expression of impatience, she pointed to my desk and said in a low voice, “Mrs. Johnson, actually Amy always likes to sneak in snacks, and doesn’t clean up after eating. When we remind her, we will be told to mind our own business…”

She spoke aggrievedly, and the troublemaking students nodded in agreement, as if they were the victims.

In fact, the most direct reason why I was bullied was Sarah.

Her family was poor, and when she first came to our class, she was always ostracized.

But she soon found out that I, who usually saved on food and clothing, seemed to be in worse condition than her family.

Then she took the lead in spreading bad things about me, trying to find a scapegoat to replace her.

Gradually, I became the person who was ridiculed and bullied in the class.

I actually tried to tell Mom about it at home.

But before I could say the real reason, I just opened my mouth and said I didn’t want to go to school.

Mom was so angry that she grabbed my hair and scolded me.

She counted her fingers, calculating how much energy and money she had spent raising me over the years.

She said that I shamelessly enjoyed the best education, but was ungrateful like a bloodsucker.

Mom’s attitude made me give up the idea of confiding in her.

She couldn’t see the torn clothes on me.

Nor could she see my hair that had been poured with dirty water.

After scolding me, she dragged me into the study and asked me to copy the textbooks for this semester ten times. I was not allowed to sleep until I finished copying.

I realized that even if I told her.

Mom would only say: “Why do others only bully you but not other students?”

“If you don’t think about finding reasons from yourself, you blame the environment.”

“You can’t overcome these problems! You know that girls in the mountains who want to study have to face not only family pressure, but also a difficult learning environment. You are happy enough, be content!”

So I swallowed all the bitterness and silently picked up the pen and started copying the textbook from the beginning.

But my hands had been poked by several thumbtacks, and it hurt and bled when I wrote.

As I copied down the texts one by one while enduring the pain of the pen grinding my wound, the handwriting was crooked.

When Mom saw it the next day, she punished me and copied it again.

But she didn’t know that that was already the best word I could write while enduring the pain of the pen scraping my wound.

Mom left after her class.

During class, she called my phone several times.

But when I was knocked away, I didn’t know where the phone fell.

No one could answer her call.

After making a few calls that were unanswered, Mom cursed at her phone in disgust.

“This dead daughter never lets me worry. Now she has learned to skip class!”

For the rest of the afternoon, she was busy with school affairs, and funding poor students.

She didn’t have time to care whether I had returned to the classroom.

She has sponsored several new poor students this year.

Whenever she has time between classes, Mom will take the initiative to contact them.

She takes great care of the difficulties they encounter in life, and asks if there is anything they need help with.

Mom would always worry from time to time whether these students had enough to eat today, and whether it would be cold when the weather turned cooler.

If they encountered any difficulties at school or at home.

She gave too much love to others, but forgot to leave some for me.

Until school was over, Mom had not waited for me to return her call.

Her face turned even more gloomy, and after failing to make another call, she typed a message.

[Amy, you have become more capable.]

[Dare to skip school, huh?]

[See if I don’t clean you up when I get home!]

Looking at the messages full of anger.

I shook my head with a wry smile.

Mom, the Amy that you vent your anger on can’t answer you anymore.

Never will.

As usual, Mom sorted out her lesson plans and packed up her teaching desk to go back.

Normally, to save on transportation costs, she rides her scooter to take me to school.

But after school, she always asked me to walk home.

Because my school hours were earlier than hers, so after I got home, I had to prepare the dishes and cook the meal, waiting for Mom to come back to eat.

I have been walking these ten or so kilometers for many years.

Mom habitually pushed open the door and asked in the room.

“Amy, is dinner ready?”

But no one answered her today.

Two seven or eight-year-old children ran out of my room. As soon as they saw Mom coming back, they immediately complained.

“Mrs. Johnson, why hasn’t Amy come back to cook today? We’re starving!”

The two children were both from neighbors’ families, and were often fostered in my house, and Mom took care of them.

Mom was usually harsh on me, but she was very nice to all outsiders, including the neighbors’ children.

Some of their parents were busy with work and often worked overtime, and they could not come home to take care of their children at dinner time.

When Mom found out, she would take the initiative to say that they could stay at my house and she would take care of them.

So, over time, my home became a temporary residence for these children.

They were more comfortable in my house than me, making demands on Mom, and Mom didn’t care at all.