Those words settled in my soul like poison. Instead of defending her, I hated her even more. I blamed her for every insult, every laugh, and every lonely moment I endured. I will never forget the day my worst nightmare became a reality. In the middle of class, the door swung open. There she stood. "Son, you forgot your lunch on the table. I was worried you’d be hungry," she said softly, holding out a small package. The room went silent for a heartbeat—and then the entire class erupted in laughter. I felt like someone had plunged a knife into my chest in front of everyone. I looked at her with such intense disgust that she recoiled instantly, but the damage was done. That night, my fury exploded. I screamed things no child should ever say to a parent. I told her I wished she would just disappear. I told her I wished she was dead so she could never embarrass me again. After that, everything changed. My mother became a ghost, a shadow moving silently through the house. I poured all my energy into my studies—not for the knowledge, but for the escape. I swore to myself I would go so far away that no one would ever link me to her. I landed a scholarship to study in Singapore and left without a single "goodbye." At the airport, she tried to hug me, but I pulled away. I left her standing there alone, her one eye filled with tears that never seemed to dry.