Chapter 4The Price of a Washing Machine: A Daughter's Rebellion

By Monday noon, my bank account balance remained unchanged.

Chloe hadn't replied to my messages or called me. I stared at my phone screen, suddenly feeling a bit ridiculous. She probably thought I would just swallow my anger and let it go, like always.

At 3 PM, I hired four friends who were personal trainers and went to the dance studio where Chloe worked.

They wore black tank tops, their arm tattoos faintly visible. Standing at the studio entrance, they immediately drew the side-eyes of the parents waiting there.

"Who are you looking for?" the girl at the front desk asked, her voice trembling.

My friend showed a picture of the IOU on his phone: "Looking for Chloe Evans. We're here to collect a debt."

In less than five minutes, my phone started vibrating wildly.

Chloe's voice was tearful: "Are you crazy?! Make them leave! There are kids here!"

"Where's the money?" I asked calmly.

"Where am I supposed to get thirty thousand dollars right now?!" she practically screamed. "Hannah, are you trying to drive me to my death?"

I listened to the noisy background sounds on her end—the murmurs of the parents and the crying of the kids. Unable to handle the pressure, Chloe burst into tears.

This scene was all too familiar to me. From childhood to adulthood, as long as she cried, the whole world would make way for her.

"Then we'll do it my way," my voice was light, but very clear. "Every day at 2 PM, they will wait for you punctually at the studio entrance. Until you pay off your debt."

"You!" She suddenly lowered her voice. "Mom is right, you're just a..."

I hung up immediately.

Ten minutes later, my mom's call came in as expected.

The word "Mom" danced on the screen. I stared at it for a long time until the ringing stopped.

She called three more times in a row, and I muted them all.

Towards evening, my friend texted: "Your sister was scared out of her mind. She hid in the bathroom crying the whole time. An old lady came running over and yelled at us, saying she was her mother."

I replied with a cash tip via Venmo to express my thanks, then opened my photo gallery and scrolled to a family portrait from last Thanksgiving. In the photo, Chloe, wearing an expensive dance outfit, stood in the center. Mom had her arm around Chloe's shoulder, smiling with pride.

And I stood on the far edge, wearing a sweater bought on sale.

My finger swiped across the screen, and I opened another folder. Inside were a few yellowed old photos. In them, a seven-year-old me wearing an obviously oversized dance leotard stood on the stage of the community center.

That leotard was altered by Mom from an old dress of Chloe's. The lace on the collar was yellowed from washing.

I still remember that summer. I secretly saved my allowance for half a year just to afford the tuition for the dance class at the community center. Every time I went to class, I had to arrive half an hour early to hide in the bathroom and change from my school uniform into the leotard, because Mom wouldn't let me learn, saying it was a waste of money.

"Your limbs are as stiff as a board," she always said. "You look like a duck when you dance."

But for that recital, the teacher specifically chose me as the lead dancer.

I gathered the courage to tell Mom. What I got in return was a slap across the face: "Who gave you permission to make that decision?!"

On the day of the performance, I was dancing enthusiastically when I suddenly saw Mom storm onto the stage angrily. In front of everyone, she grabbed me by my ponytail and dragged me off the stage.

"You dance so ugly and you still go on stage, aren't you embarrassed?"

Her voice echoed through the entire auditorium.

I will never forget the surprised looks of the kids in the audience and the awkward expression on my teacher's face.

And Chloe? When she was five, Mom signed her up for the most expensive private dance lessons.

"Our Chloe is going to pursue the arts in the future," she told everyone she met. "So she can take fewer detours."

But Chloe was afraid of pain. It wasn't until she was ten that she could barely manage a backbend. Every time she practiced basic skills, she cried hysterically.

Mom would hold her and coax her: "Stop practicing, stop practicing. Our Chloe is so talented, she doesn't need to practice these."

Later, when Chloe graduated high school, her academic grades were terrible. Mom insisted on spending tens of thousands to send her to an arts college.

The teachers at that third-rate arts school shook their heads when they saw Chloe's dance video, but Mom insisted, "You guys just don't know how to appreciate art."

Later, Chloe threw a fit about wanting to study abroad for a semester, and Mom took out all her retirement savings. "Foreign education resources are better," she explained to our relatives, never mentioning a word about how that money was what I was supposed to use to buy a house.

In the photo, seven-year-old me has bright eyes, not yet knowing that I would never get a single word of praise from my mom in this lifetime.

And the present me, who finished college on scholarships, working as a manager in a multinational corporation, still couldn't compare to Chloe, who taught dance at a children's art center. In Mom's eyes, at least Chloe had an artistic dream, while I was just a cold-blooded money-making machine.

I locked my photo gallery just as the washing machine beeped.

The clothes were done washing, emitting a faint lavender scent.

I shook them out one by one, suddenly noticing an old pajama set pressed at the very bottom. It was a hand-me-down Chloe didn't want anymore last year.

I picked up the pajamas and threw them into the trash can without hesitation.

Just like throwing away the dance dreams I desperately suppressed for so many years to please my mom.