An Exchange of Lives

Mom would strictly dictate my every moment, decide who I could associate with, and secretly search my room and even my trash.

If I went out for an hour, she would call to check in on me five times. A minor bruise on me would prompt her to storm into school and cause a scene.

My classmates cornered me in the restroom, mocking me for being a baby who hadn't been weaned yet. They yanked my pants down, jeering, wanting to see if I'd even grown anything.

I couldn't take it anymore. In my rebellion, I grew wild and unruly. I smashed my phone and ran away from home.

Late at night, I unexpectedly ran into a creep who dragged me into a dark alley and molested me.

Thankfully, Mom was still looking for me in the dead of night. She heard my screams and came just in time, fighting that creep with her life.

However, the creep pulled out a knife and stabbed her several times.

She couldn't fight back, so she shielded me with her body, forcing a twisted smile at me through her pain.

At that moment, my rebellion ended, brief and dramatic as it had been.

I truly understood that there was no one in this world who loved me more than Mom.

She endured countless hardships to raise me, yet she never got to enjoy a peaceful life. She spent six years in prison, then ten more in a psychiatric hospital.

When I finally brought her home, she had developed dementia. Most of the time, her mind was a haze, but in rare moments of clarity, she would recognize only me and Melody.

And now, she had to die.

I sat silently on a small stool at her feet, my back hunched so low my chin nearly touched my chest.

Her frail hands held out a bruised apple with a bumpy surface, bringing it up to my face.

"Hunter, have an apple. Apples are good—nutritious. Eat them, and you'll get smarter..."

In my field of vision, her sleeve had pulled back, revealing a jagged scar running up her arm.

It was from that night when she fought to take the knife. Afterward, when she covered my eyes, the sticky blood from her wrist wound dripped down my cheek, sliding behind my ear.

Tears gushed from my eyes instantly. I knelt forward, pressing my face against that scar, my lips trembling as I sobbed loudly. "Mom, I'm sorry... I'm so sorry..."

…

We prepared the ransom.

When it was time and we arrived at the place for the exchange, we parked the car beneath the abandoned building.

Knowing we might be under constant surveillance, we dared not make any reckless moves. All we could do was repeatedly instruct Mom on what to do.

She, in her muddled state, couldn't understand. She kept flashing a silly smile at me.

Hope was on the verge of a breakdown, her fingers digging into Mom's shoulders as she barked, her eyes bloodshot. "When you go into that building, hand the money to the man with Melody. Do you hear me?"

Mom didn't even flinch from the pain; she only looked at Hope in confusion.

I gently pushed Hope's hands aside, placed the black bag filled with money in my mom's arms, and bent down to coax her softly.

"Mom, I want to eat an apple. Can you help me buy some? Go into that building, find the man with Melody, and buy from him. I like the apples he sells."

Recognition lit up in my mom's eyes. Her face broke into a wide smile, and she nodded enthusiastically. "Yes, yes, I will buy you apples, Hunter!"

She clutched the bag tightly as if holding the most precious treasure in the world.

Through my blurred vision, I stared at her face, weathered with wrinkles. For a moment, it felt unfamiliar.

Over the years, I saw so many things—studies, work, houses, cars, a wife, a daughter, and even friends and colleagues. But I never took a proper look at the woman who invested every ounce of her being into raising me selflessly.

What was I doing all these years?

The pain and guilt weighed down on me like an invisible mountain pressing on my shoulders and head, so heavy I couldn't lift them anymore.

Then, a dry, rough hand gently rested on the top of my head.