There’s a type of person everyone knows well—those who stubbornly dive into fields they suck at. Their self-sabotaging antics make it impossible for bystanders to call them "indomitable."

Take KTV mic hogs, for example. Ninety percent are tone-deaf mic killers, statistically speaking. In a way, my mom—who’s spent over a decade "mastering" cooking—fits this style too.

I sat on the sofa, watching her flustered back in the kitchen. I wanted to help avoid food poisoning but couldn’t move. Jiang Xiaoyu sat on my left, glued to her buzzing phone screen. Ouyang Lian sat on my right, quietly watching a soap opera.

My two sisters shared one trait: they pinned me firmly to the couch.

Since I walked in, Jiang Xiaoyu—acting indifferent to everything—had crushed my left foot under hers, her pressure steadily increasing. Ouyang Lian, self-taught in grappling, locked my right arm against her chest with a Kimura hold. It felt like being rubbed against a washboard—zero softness.

"You two get along so well," Mom chirped, spoon in hand, apron tied. "But even with your brother, don’t overdo the clinginess!" Her emotional IQ matched her cooking skills: terrible. Worst of all, she thought she was helping when she was pouring gasoline on fire.

"But I haven’t seen Brother in ages!"

"You worry too much."

Their voices met, then drifted apart like fencers testing blades.

This had nothing to do with sisterly dependence. It was pure doll-fighting—two girls battling over the house’s only toy. My left foot throbbed. My right shoulder nearly dislocated. I recalled last year’s screaming chicken toy, bought to vent slave-life frustrations. It was probably laughing at me from some obscure corner of Earth right now.

At dinner, I ignored Jiang Xiaoyu’s icy, subtle stares and Ouyang Lian’s tearful eyes. I slid straight beside Mom. Food poisoning was treatable; Kimura locks and scissor-leg death grips were eternal puzzles.

Sister Xixi and Uncle weren’t back yet—she was interning. Mom heaped a bowl of "love-poison" jiaozi in front of me. "Time for a haircut," she teased.

The mature woman in a black sweater showed no signs of age. Standing with Jiang Xiaoyu, they looked like sisters. Four years ago, my playful mom and Jiang Xiaoyu were trench buddies in pranking me.

If only Mom’s naive sweetness swapped with my tyrant-slaveholder sister. Filial piety meant obeying Mom—that was natural. I’d even cherish a silly, lovable little sister. Same slavery, easier to swallow. Now? Sisters acted like stepmoms; my real mom felt like a kid. Awkward as hell.

I drowned the jiaozi in vinegar to numb my tongue. Couldn’t tell if it was snail or sea cucumber filling anyway. "High school seniors are swamped. Haircut time could solve a bonus math problem!"

"Really? Then eat up! Full bellies fuel hard work."

Jiang Xiaoyu finally put her phone down, poking cold dishes. A rare, sly smile flashed. "Fuel for extra gaming sessions, you mean?"

"Shut up!" I shot her a glare. We’d agreed: no mutual sabotage!

Luckily, Mom’s thick-skinned and doting. She gave Jiang Xiaoyu a tender look. "Boys should keep hair neat. At this rate, you’ll never find a girlfriend."

"No way!" Ouyang Lian winked at me. "Brother’s super popular at school!"

Mom’s eyes lit up. "Really? I’m relieved! Bring any girl you like home for me to see."

Jiang Xiaoyu shot me a mocking glance—a bad omen. Sensing trouble, I pivoted fast: "Speaking of which, Jiang Xiaoyu aced the mock exam again! Top of the grade—congrats!"

"Sister Jiang is amazing. Better than Sister Xixi."

"Just luck."

The two rivals now chatted warmly, all smiles. Women were terrifying—you never knew their true thoughts behind the words.

"Jiang Xiaoyu always makes me proud. Oh! You’ve wanted a guitar for ages. As a reward—"

"No thanks. That was ages ago. I lack nothing now."

Jiang Xiaoyu cut Mom off with a smile. I didn’t need to look to know her expression. All chatter died. The forced-harmony dinner finally cracked. I drowned in guilt for shifting blame.

*Sigh*. Rare visits beyond New Year’s always ended like this.

Setting bias aside, Jiang Xiaoyu was a flawless high school girl—outwardly. But perfection was just a costume for strangers. No matter how polished, it was a lie. A mask. Seeing it meant you were already out of the game.

Now, she wore that impeccable, polite mask for everyone here. Her cool, interview-like tone told Mom one truth: *You’ve changed. I’ve changed. I lack nothing—not even a loyal punching bag.*

*Burp!*

I let out a loud belch, piling the remaining sour jiaozi into Mom’s bowl. "Full."

Her dim face forced a bitter smile. "Men eating like girls—no wonder you’re so skinny. How will other girls survive?"

I disagreed. Skinny but muscular—my Gym Leader roots showed. I couldn’t accept being called frail like a girl.

I struck a Popeye pose, solemn-faced. "Truth is, I’m deceptively lean. The standard V-taper galaxy pretty boy—that’s me."

Mom froze, then burst laughing. Her gaze lingered on me, tracing another man’s shadow. Even Jiang Xiaoyu’s lips twitched, fighting a smile as she fiddled with her bangs.

*Pfft!*

Ouyang Lian’s face flushed red as she spat out a black, gooey lump—probably faking illness to skip dinner. I seriously questioned what was in these jiaozi.

"Sorry I’m late!"

A tall, rushing figure burst through the front door. I breathed relief—no more awkward hosting.

"Hello, my silly brother!"

The girl in a cropped jacket blew me a kiss. Kicking off heels, her black-stockinged legs carried her to the living room. She collapsed on the couch, groaning. "Dead tired. Dad’s still at the factory—raw material issues. He sent apologies... Huh? Jiang Xiaoyu’s here too!"