Rich Bite More: Mom's Household Ration Law

I moved into my company's single-occupancy dorm, a 65-square-foot room furnished with nothing but a bed, a desk, and a wardrobe. The walls were mottled, and there were water stains on the ceiling.

Even so, it was the first time in decades that I had a space that truly belonged to me.

I placed the three dollars into a transparent glass jar and set it in the most prominent spot on the desk. Every time I looked at it, I'd remember that night, my family's faces, and my own humiliation.

I looked at myself in the mirror.

The handprint on my face hadn't faded yet, and the wound at the corner of my mouth had scabbed over.

The scratches Mom's nails had left on my arm had long since scarred, but the cuts on my legs from the broken plate still pulsed with a dull pain.

As I stared at my reflection, a sudden chuckle escaped my lips. And then I laughed harder and harder until I found myself crying all over again.

At 11: 30 pm, my phone buzzed frantically.

I'd been added to a WhatsApp Group called "Loving Family". There were more than 50 people in the group, all relatives of my parents.

Mom launched the first attack with a three-minute-long voice message.

In a voice thick with unshed tears, wounded pride, and simmering anger, she said, "Dear relatives, I must speak today about my ungrateful daughter, Brittany.

"On Christmas Eve, she showed up with a ledger, claiming we owe her half a million dollars. She even threatened to take us to court. Everett was so furious that he slapped her, and she actually had the nerve to fight back.

"After everything Everett and I sacrificed to raise her, this is how she repays us? What did we ever do wrong to raise such an ungrateful wretch?"

I listened to the voice message, my hands trembling.

She actually said I fought back? Why, I didn't even dodge! I just stood there and let them hit and scratch me.

My uncle, Claude Murray, was the first to jump in.

"Brittany, you ingrate! Your parents raised you for 20 years, yet you have the nerve to ask for money? Do you have any conscience, any humanity? So what if your father hit you? That's simply what you get for doing something wrong."

My aunt, Lena Murray, quickly followed. "She kept a ledger for ten years? Isn't that premeditated? Brittany is so calculating. Natasha, you need to be careful of her. She might try to get revenge."

My cousin, Carl Murray, also chimed in, "Someone with an attitude like her is bound to get crushed out there in the real world. I suggest you call the police, because this is textbook extortion."

Mom's cousin, Ramon Dalton, added, "Exactly! I always felt something was off about Brittany since she was little. She may not say much, but she's rotten to the core."

Another cousin of mine, Miriam Murray, piled on. "Aunt Natasha, don't be upset. A daughter like Brittany isn't worth keeping. It's best to cut ties with her as soon as possible to avoid trouble down the road."

One after another, messages full of accusations and abuse directed at me flooded the screen.

Not one person asked me why, if I was okay, or how I got the injuries on my face.

They just stood on their moral high ground, deftly slapping labels on me like "unloyal", "ingrate", and "thankless", before proceeding to pass judgment.

As I read those messages, the tears started flowing again. In their eyes, I wasn't even entitled to a single word in my defense.

I opened my photo album and took screenshots of all the transfer records from the past ten years. One by one, I sent them to the group.

My fingers trembled so violently that I missed the screen again and again before finally managing to post them.

Each one had a date, an amount, and a note.

"March 22nd, 2016. Transfer of 32 thousand dollars. Note—Dad's surgery."

"June 8th, 2017. Transfer of 30 thousand dollars. Note—Stephanie's deposit for studying abroad."

"September 23rd, 2018. Transfer of 50 thousand dollars. Note—Gregory's accident medical expenses."

"December 15th, 2019. Transfer of 20 thousand dollars. Note—Home renovation."

The screenshots scrolled across the screen one after another.

For a few seconds, the group fell silent.

Then, an even more vicious wave of abuse erupted.

Uncle Clyde wrote, "Screenshots prove nothing. For all we know, you could've faked those. It's not like that's hard these days."

Aunt Lena replied, "Even if they're real, you gave that money willingly! Now you're changing your mind?"

Carl remarked, "How evil. She even wants to claw back money from her parents."

I continued posting.

"Also, since January 2015, I've contributed 2,000 dollars every single month for living expenses. I never missed a payment in all those years. Here's my bank statement—every record is there.

"But on Christmas Eve, when I took an extra serving of pasta, Mom demanded I pay three dollars for it right in front of everyone. Then, Dad hit me, and I still have the marks to prove it too."

I sent them a selfie. In the photo, the handprint was still clearly visible on my face. Moreover, the corner of my mouth was split, and my eyes were swollen from crying.

The group fell silent for another few seconds, but soon someone jumped in again.

My other aunt, Sally Murray, said, "You must've provoked your father first. Why else would he hit you? I feel sorry for your parents. Look how you've upset your father!"

Grace Murray, a cousin younger than me, chimed in, "Exactly. You did something wrong, and yet you still have the nerve to complain? And why are you dragging your family matters into the group? Aren't you just putting us in an awkward position?"

I stared at those messages and suddenly found it all so funny. I laughed and laughed until the tears started flowing again.

Then, I sent another message.

"I forgot to mention one more thing. Over these ten years, Stephanie has three properties under her name, while Gregory drives a luxury car.

"Meanwhile, I ride a second-hand electric scooter and live in a 65-square-foot company dorm. My bank balance is less than 5,000 dollars.

"This is the reality behind what you all called a fair family and the parents I was supposed to be grateful to."

I left the group chat and promptly deleted all my family members' contact information. Then, I lay on my bed, staring at the ceiling, while tears trickled from the corners of my eyes into my hair.

I cried for what felt like an eternity.

The next morning, I went to work with swollen eyes.

As soon as I reached the building, I saw a crowd gathering at the entrance. Some started pointing at me.

"How could she be so ruthless? Just look at how devastated her parents are."

"Exactly. After everything they did for her, this is how she treats them?"

Just then, the company's HR manager, Abel Patterson, walked out. He looked from the banner at the entrance to me, his expression darkening.

"Brittany, come with me."