“See What Pain Looks Like”
I used to believe families hurt one another only by accident—slips of the tongue, mismatched expectations, old wounds reopening in inconvenient moments. But standing in our kitchen that September morning, my mother’s fingers smeared with red chili paste as she grabbed my chin, I learned that some injuries aren’t accidental at all. Some people inflict pain the way others breathe.
None of this began that morning, but that was the moment everything collapsed.
It was 7:14 a.m.
My sister Olivia’s engagement party rehearsal was in five hours. I had already rehearsed my speech. I had already bought a dress I couldn’t afford. But my mother had decided that even my presence wasn’t enough—I had to be what she called “the supportive shadow.” Her words.
In our house, Olivia was the sun, and I, the eclipse she tried her whole life to avoid.
Mom stood by the counter, stirring a bowl of homemade chili paste—her “secret weapon,” as she liked to call it for cooking. Except, judging by the way she kept glancing at me while she stirred, she had another purpose in mind today.
“You’re going to wear the maid-of-honor dress,” she said without turning.
“I’m not her maid of honor.”
“You will be today,” she said calmly. “Because Olivia wants a symmetrical aesthetic.”
I almost laughed. “Aesthetic? Mom, I’m not—”
She slammed the spoon down, the metal clattering against ceramic.
“This is her weekend. If you love your sister—”
“That’s the problem,” I snapped before I could stop myself. “You only love her. You’ve never even pretended with me.”
The silence that followed was like the house exhaling. Even the old fridge seemed to stop humming.
Mom turned slowly, her eyes narrowing as if she were trying to identify some unfamiliar species standing in her kitchen. She wiped her hands on a towel, walked to the pantry, and pulled out the red-labeled jar I recognized instantly—the one with the warning: EXTREME HEAT. USE GLOVES.
My heartbeat stuttered.
“Mom. What are you doing?”
She unscrewed the lid without answering.
The smell hit immediately—sharp, sour, spicy enough to sting the air.
“I said no,” I whispered.
“Yes,” she said softly. “And that’s exactly why we’re here.”
I made a move for the door.
She moved faster.
Her hand clamped the back of my neck, forcing my face upward. She wasn’t a strong woman—not physically—but determination changes biology. She dipped two fingers into the chili paste. Thick red clumps clung to her skin.
“Mom, don’t—please—”
“Maybe this will teach you,” she hissed.
And then she dragged her fingers across my eyes.
The pain wasn’t instant—it arrived a heartbeat later, like a match thrown onto gasoline.
My eyes erupted.
White heat.
Screaming heat.
Blinding, drowning, tearing heat.
I stumbled backward, knocking over a chair.
My hands clawed at my face, but touching only spread the burning. Tears gushed instantly, but they didn’t soothe—if anything, the liquid spread the spice further, igniting new nerves.
I couldn’t see.
I couldn’t breathe.
All I could hear was my mother’s voice floating behind me, as calm as if she’d spilled flour on the floor.
“Look what disobedience brings,” she said.
Her footsteps retreated, leaving me choking, sobbing, and pawing my way toward the sink.
I fumbled for the faucet, knocking into everything—dish soap, a mug, a stack of plates. When the cold water finally spilled over my hands, I splashed upward wildly. The shock of cold hit like another explosion.
But at least I could breathe again.
I stayed hunched over the sink for minutes—maybe hours. Time folded oddly when pain was the only clock.
When I could finally open my eyes—barely—it felt like someone had sanded my eyeballs. Everything was blurry, doubled, fractured around the edges. Every blink felt like shards grinding.
That was when I heard someone at the doorway.
“Holy shit—what happened to you?”
Not my mother.
Not Olivia.
But Olivia’s fiancé, Michael.
He had arrived early, probably to pick up some stupid floral arrangement. He froze in the kitchen, his face draining as he took in the scene—me soaked, trembling, eyes red and streaming.
“Did something explode?” he asked, stepping closer.
I shook my head.
“What happened?” he repeated, slower this time.
I swallowed. “Mom.”
His eyebrows pulled down.
“What about her?”
“She… she put chili paste in my eyes.”
His mouth opened, closed. “On purpose?”
I nodded, tears still leaking.
“For refusing to be Olivia’s maid today,” I whispered.
Michael took two steps back, as if creating distance might help him process. He ran a hand through his hair.
“Jesus, your mom—she did that?” he said. “That’s—god, that’s insane.”
There was no surprise in his tone. Just horror.
Footsteps echoed upstairs. Mom was getting dressed, probably rehearsing her polite, collected persona—charismatic to strangers, venomous to her daughters.
Michael lowered his voice.
“You can’t stay here.”
“I don’t have a choice.”
“The hell you don’t,” he said. “Come on.”
“I can’t,” I whispered. “Olivia’s going to be furious.”
He stared at me for a long moment. “Your sister shouldn’t want you anywhere near her today. Not if this is what your mom just did to you.”
“That’s the thing,” I said. “She will. Because she only cares about how things look. Not what they are.”
Olivia wasn’t furious.
She was worse—annoyed.
When she came downstairs, Mom trailing behind her, she greeted Michael with a kiss and then glanced at me like I was a misplaced vending machine.
“What happened to your face?” she asked, nose wrinkling slightly.
Before I could speak, Mom cut in.
“She was clumsy. Knocked chili paste into her own eyes.”
A clean lie delivered with a smile.
Olivia sighed dramatically. “Can you not ruin today? I swear, every important event—your mood just tanks the whole vibe.”
I stared at her. “My mood?”
“Yeah,” she said. “You’re literally dripping water on the floor.”
Michael shook his head in disbelief.
“Liv, your mom burned her eyes—”
“Michael,” Mom interrupted sweetly, placing a hand on his arm. “Let’s not exaggerate.”
He pulled away from her touch gently, but firmly.
“She was screaming,” he said. “I found her at the sink crying in pain.”
Olivia crossed her arms. “So she’s dramatic. What else is new?”
I felt my chest hollow out.
There are moments in life when silence sharpens like glass. This was one of them.
“I’m not being dramatic,” I said softly. “She did it on purpose.”
Mom clicked her tongue. “If you’d just worn the dress—”
Michael turned to me. “You wanna leave? I’ll drive you.”
The kitchen stilled.
Mom’s voice dropped to a low, dangerous place I knew too well.
“You’re not going anywhere,” she said. “If you leave, don’t bother coming back.”
I braced myself for Olivia to support her. For the same old script.
But Olivia blinked at Mom.
“Wait. You’re saying she can’t leave the house?”
“She’ll embarrass us,” Mom hissed.
“She already is,” Olivia muttered.
Michael exhaled. “Because your mother assaulted her.”
“We’re not using that word,” Mom snapped.
“Then pick a better one,” he shot back. “I’m taking her out of here. Her eyes could be damaged.”
Mom stepped forward.
“You will do no such thing.”
“Mom,” Olivia said sharply. “Stop. You’re acting crazy.”
My mother stared at all three of us like we were conspiring traitors. Her jaw tightened until a muscle trembled.
“You always do this,” she whispered—though it wasn’t clear whether she meant me or everyone in the room. “You ruin everything. You can never just stay small. Quiet. Behaved.”
She used those words like shackles.
But something loosened inside me.
Because for the first time, Olivia looked at Mom—not me—with fear.
“Mom… did you really put chili in her eyes?” she asked quietly.
Mom laughed. Not the light kind. The brittle, cracking kind.
“Of course I didn’t. Why would I do something like that?”
Michael’s voice cut in, low and steady.
“Because she told you no.”
Mom glared at him as though he’d betrayed a sacred pact. “Don’t talk about things you don’t understand.”
“Oh, I understand plenty,” he said.
He turned to me, offering his hand.
“Come on. Hospital first.”
I hesitated only a second before taking it.
Mom lunged.
Michael blocked her with his body.
“Don’t,” he warned.
Olivia held Mom’s arm. “Mom, stop!”
But Mom wasn’t listening. “She’s ungrateful! After everything I’ve done—after all the sacrifices—she does this? On Olivia’s weekend? She’s jealous, that’s what this is!”
I flinched.
But Michael didn’t.
“You almost blinded your daughter,” he said coldly.
Olivia’s face drained of color.
And for the first time in years, she didn’t defend her.
The hospital doctor confirmed what I already feared—my corneas were irritated, scratched, inflamed. But not permanently damaged.
“You’re lucky,” he said. “Could’ve been much worse. Chili oils can cause chemical burns.”
I nodded, blinking slowly, the lights still stabbing my eyes.
Michael waited outside the exam room, pacing. When I came out, he stopped immediately.
“You okay?”
“No,” I said honestly. “But better.”
He exhaled in relief. “Good. Good.”
We sat in the hospital lobby, a sterile place full of people trying not to cry. I leaned my head back, keeping my eyes half-closed.
“You don’t have to stay,” I said. “Olivia’s rehearsal—”
“She’ll survive without me,” he said. Then added, “Maybe she should learn how to.”
A small laugh escaped me. It hurt, but in a different way.
“I’m sorry this ruined your day,” I murmured.
“Ruined?” he repeated. “No. But it… changed something.”
“Changed what?”
He hesitated. “I love Olivia. I really do. But I didn’t fully see… her family. How you’re treated.”
“You didn’t believe me before?” I asked quietly.
“I didn’t know,” he said. “She never talked about it.”
I nodded.
Of course she didn’t. In our house, abuse wasn’t abuse—it was “discipline,” “correction,” “Mother’s stress acting up.” And I was always the scapegoat.
We sat in silence until he spoke again.
“What happens now?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Mom’ll be furious. Olivia too.”
“Then don’t go back.”
I stared at him, stunned.
“You can stay with a friend,” he said quickly. “Or I can get you a hotel. I’m not saying move in with me—I know how that sounds. I’m just saying… you don’t deserve to go back to that.”
My throat tightened.
“No one’s ever said that to me,” I whispered.
His expression softened. “Guess they should’ve.”
Mom sent twenty-three text messages.
Olivia sent twelve.
All variations of:
“COME BACK RIGHT NOW.”
“You’re ruining everything.”
“If you don’t return, don’t expect sympathy later.”
“You’re acting unhinged.”
“Mom is crying because of you.”
And one from Olivia that said:
“Did you really tell Michael Mom hurt you? Why would you do that?”
I stared at the screen for a long time.
Then I blocked them both.
My hands trembled, but I didn’t regret it.
Michael helped me check into a nearby hotel. As he left, he paused awkwardly by the door.
“For what it’s worth,” he said, “I’m glad you stood up for yourself.”
I smiled faintly. “I didn’t stand up. I just ran.”
“Sometimes running is standing up,” he said. “Especially when the fire’s coming from your own house.”
The words landed deeper than he intended.
The next morning, someone knocked on my hotel door.
I considered ignoring it—until I heard a voice I recognized.
“Please open up,” Olivia said.
I unlatched the door cautiously.
She stood there—mascara smudged, hair undone, wedding-prep glow replaced with raw frustration.
“Can we talk?” she asked.
I let her in.
She paced the room for a moment before blurting out, “Mom is losing her mind.”
“She usually is,” I said.
“No, like—really losing it. She’s saying Michael brainwashed you. She told the guests you had some kind of breakdown. She’s making me choose sides.”
“And you don’t want to pick the wrong one,” I said softly.
She froze. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means,” I said, “that you’ve always chosen her.”
“That’s not fair,” she snapped. “You exaggerate. You always make everything about ‘poor you.’ Maybe Mom is tough on you, but—”
“Olivia,” I said gently. “She assaulted me.”
She flinched at the word.
Assault.
“She… she said it was an accident.”
I stared at her red-rimmed eyes, wondering how much denial a person could swallow before choking.
“You saw my face,” I said. “Do you think I’d do that to myself?”
She didn’t answer.
“Do you remember when you fell off the porch at twelve?” I continued. “And I tried to help you up, and Mom slapped me for ‘getting in the way’? Or the time she blamed me for you getting sick? Or when she punished me for my grades because hers weren’t perfect in college? You remember all of it, Liv. You just—don’t let yourself think about it.”
She sat on the edge of the bed, covering her face with her hands. Her shoulders shook once.
“Mom says you want to destroy this family,” she whispered.
“She destroyed it,” I said. “Years ago.”
Silence stretched between us.
Finally, she looked up, eyes glassy. “Are you coming to the rehearsal dinner?”
I shook my head. “No.”
She swallowed. “Will you come to the wedding?”
“No,” I said again. “Not if she’s there.”
Olivia’s breath hitched. “You… you’re serious.”
“For the first time in my life, yes.”
“But I need you,” she murmured.
“No, Liv,” I said softly. “You need her approval. And you’ll do anything—hurt anyone—to keep it.”
Her lip trembled. “That’s not fair.”
“Maybe not,” I said. “But it’s true.”
She stood slowly, as if the floor had tilted.
“So that’s it? You’re just… leaving us?”
“I’m leaving the pain,” I said. “Not you. But you’re choosing to stay in it.”
She wiped her cheek angrily. “Fine.”
She walked to the door, pausing only once.
“I hope you’re happy,” she said.
“I hope someday you will be too,” I whispered.
She left.
And for the first time in my life, the silence that followed felt like peace.
Three days later, Michael texted me.
You were right about everything. I broke off the engagement.
My breath caught.
He sent another message.
Your sister needs real help. And your mom… I don’t think she’ll ever get it.
I’m sorry you grew up in that house.
I’m proud of you for getting out.
I cried harder than I had in years.
Not because I was sad.
But because someone believed me.
I eventually moved across the country—another state, another life, another version of myself.
Therapy helped.
Time helped.
Distance helped most of all.
One day, months later, I looked at myself in the mirror.
My eyes were no longer red or swollen.
No pain.
No blur.
Just me.
And that was when I realized something:
My mother tried to show me what pain looks like.
She succeeded—
but not in the way she intended.
Pain has a face.
It’s mine.
But now…
so does freedom.
And mine finally looks unafraid.
