Chapter 1

On my eighteenth birthday, my mom insisted on throwing me a party at home.

I was genuinely excited. I invited all my closest friends.

Just as the laughter was picking up, the living room lights cut out. A projector flickered to life, and suddenly a graphic video of my birth began playing—blood, umbilical cord, the whole thing.

Then came Mom’s voice, bitter and sharp, from behind us.

“I’ve gone through labor eighteen times for this day, and my daughter thinks it’s all about her birthday?”
“I spent all morning cooking, blew over two hundred dollars decorating this place, and not a single thank-you!”
“You just brought your little clique here to suck the life out of me. Happy now?!”

Everyone sat frozen in horrified silence. Then one by one, they made up excuses and left.

I barely survived that summer. Karen, on the other hand, was all smiles, proudly telling anyone who’d listen how “touching” my birthday had been.

Finally, the day came to leave for college. Karen, unsurprisingly, offered to tag along.

“Why don’t I come with you? You’ve got too much stuff to carry alone.”

I looked at the mountain of bags she packed—leftover casseroles, old Tupperware filled with soggy green beans and meatloaf scraps. The books and keepsakes I’d planned to bring? Mysteriously missing.

“Don’t bring that junk,” she said. “Toss it. You need food, not clutter. You might get hungry on the road.”
“And let’s not waste money on an Uber. We’ll take the bus.”

My heart pounded. My face burned.

All the things she dismissed as junk were my lifeline. My escape. My start.

That summer had been a prison. I was done.

I yanked every last container from the suitcase and dumped them onto the floor.

Gravy, soup, and congealed leftovers splashed everywhere. The stench hit instantly—sour, rotting.

“I told you I didn’t want it! I don’t want your food, or your help, or YOU!”
“I’m going to college, not preschool! I’m not your doll!”

Karen stared at me like her obedient little golden retriever had just bitten her face off.

Her jaw clenched so hard I could hear her molars grinding. She was about to blow when Frank, my dad, walked in.

“What the hell’s going on in here?”

Karen snapped into a pouty, tearful act.

“Lana’s all grown up now. Doesn’t want her mom around anymore.”

Frank didn’t even look at her. His eyes landed on the disaster of our living room.

“Clean this up. This is embarrassing.”

While they bickered, I grabbed my suitcase and bolted. I didn’t look back, even as I heard Karen yelling my name.

The train ride to campus was a blur of relief. My chest loosened for the first time in months.

College. Freedom. A fresh start.

I got to my dorm, met my new roommate Emily, unpacked, and headed off to the welcome orientation.

That’s when she showed up.

Karen.

Bursting through the auditorium’s side door, red-eyed and disheveled. She grabbed my hand and burst into tears in front of everyone.

“How could you?! I gave up so much for you! Skipped new clothes, skipped vacations, all so you could go to this damn school, and you sneak out without saying goodbye?”
“Are you ashamed of me? Is it because I’m just a stay-at-home mom, not fancy enough for your new life?”

Then she collapsed on the floor, sobbing.

Chapter 2

Silence fell like a curtain.

Dozens of eyes landed on me, thick with judgment.

My mind flashed back to my birthday. The humiliation. The suffocation. The horror.

I thought I had escaped.

I reached to help her up. She stood for a second, then collapsed again like a broken puppet.

“You’re hurting me… You’re really going to treat your mom like this after I send you $400 a month?”

Whispers floated around us.

“Four hundred a month? Is she here for college or a spa vacation?”
“Jesus, her mom looks like she doesn’t even have forty bucks on her.”
“Bet she’s a total brat at home.”

I tried to explain. No one listened.

Karen, hidden from their view, gave me a smug little smirk.

A few concerned students helped her up. She switched gears, looking like a fragile saint holding back tears. Then she pulled out something from her ratty old tote bag.

Plastic grocery bags.

The smell hit before I even saw what was inside.

Leftovers. The same food I had tossed that morning. She had dug them out of the trash and brought them here.

My stomach churned. I could barely breathe.

The students near us recoiled, but quickly masked their disgust with pity.

“Wow, she really loves her kid. Saved every bite for her.”
“Too bad the daughter doesn’t appreciate it. She tried to push her mom away earlier.”
“Smells awful… but it’s the thought that counts, right?”

Karen pressed the dripping bags into my hands, voice trembling.

“Here, sweetie… Don’t go hungry. I’ll leave now. I won’t embarrass you anymore.”

She turned to leave, wobbling dramatically like a wounded martyr.

A few students rushed to steady her, glaring at me like I’d just kicked a puppy.

Emily nudged my arm, whispering, “Lana… maybe just take them. Everyone’s watching.”

Numb, I took the bags. They felt radioactive.

Karen let herself be led away. The welcome event ended in an awkward, scattered mess.

I ran to the nearest trash can and dumped every last disgusting bag inside.

The food. The show. The guilt.

I was done with all of it.

But Karen? She was just getting started.

Chapter 3

After that spectacle, Karen suddenly eased off. It was weird—she stopped hovering, stopped nagging.

“You’re in college now,” she said over the phone. “I don’t have the energy to micromanage anymore.”
“Buy what you want, wear what you want, hang out with whoever.”
“Your allowance is down to $150 a month. That’s all.”

Just enough to scrape by if I budgeted every dime.

It was odd, but I wasn’t about to question my freedom.

I dove into college life—my schedule, my pace, my rules.

Except… something felt off.

People stared. Not the curious glances freshmen give each other, but full-on, studying-me-like-a-zoo-animal stares.

“That’s her, right? The girl who tried to ditch her mom at orientation…”
“I heard she threw away the food her mom packed. So heartless.”
“Shh, she’s walking this way…”

It’ll pass, I told myself. Give it two weeks, max.

But it didn’t.

The stares didn’t fade. In lectures, in the dining hall, walking across campus—phones came out, whispers followed.

It felt like being watched through a peephole. Constantly.

Just like home.

Something wasn’t right.

I started wondering if I should take a break. Transfer. Disappear.

Emily sat across the room at her desk, sneaking glances every now and then. Finally, she walked over, holding out her phone.

“Lana… you need to see this.”

On the screen was a video-sharing app. The profile photo? Karen, smiling sweetly.

The handle? @MyDaughterMyHeart. Dozens of thousands of followers.

My chest went ice-cold.

The top video was me. Walking across campus in cheap jeans and a thrifted jacket, slouched, trying not to make eye contact.

Her voice narrated over the clip.

“There she is again, new clothes every week… Her dad and I work our butts off and give her everything, but it never seems to be enough.”

I clicked the next video.

Me eating in the cafeteria, head down. A few new friends at my table.

“Always glued to her phone. Never tries to make friends. How’s she supposed to grow like this? She’s always been too closed off…”

Third video. Closer. My desk, with a crumpled snack wrapper beside my laptop.

“Still messy. I told her a thousand times to keep her space clean. Thought maybe college would help, but nope.”

Each video came with a chorus of comments.

“Why is she always looking at the ground? She knows she’s not cute, huh?”
“LOL she thinks people are interested in her? Total narcissist vibes.”

I felt stripped bare. Like an animal in a cage.

Chapter 4

I sat on my bed, trembling, locked on Emily.

“How… how did she even film this?”

Emily hesitated, then handed me her phone again.

A group chat screenshot. Karen had created a private fan group.

She was bribing my classmates.

“She gives out cash. Calls it a ‘guardian bonus.’ Pays anyone who sends her updates about you.”
“Ashley and Jessica are both in there. Those videos from our dorm? They recorded them.”

I stared at the screenshot, hands numb.

Karen had just posted:

“Thanks to the student who sent today’s classroom photo. Payment sent! She looked so distracted, I’m worried she’s falling behind. 😭”
“Got a new library video from a sweet upperclassman! I’m glad she’s studying. Here’s your tip! Keep them coming!”

She was turning me into clickbait. Guilt porn.

The disgust, the rage, the humiliation—it all surged up like a tidal wave.

I clenched my fists.

“Lana? Are you okay?” Emily asked gently.

I looked up at her. My voice was steady.

“I’m fine. Actually, I just figured something out.”

Karen never wanted to help me. She wanted attention. Worship. Sympathy.

She didn’t love me.

She loved the version of herself she built in front of an audience.

So why should I keep playing the dutiful daughter?

That night, after lights out, I created an anonymous account.

No real name. No school info. Just a digital diary.

The next day, I got a part-time job and started posting.

No pity posts. No sob stories.

Just real moments.

“Class done. Charging up in the library for an hour.”
“Dining hall dinner: mashed potatoes and canned green beans. Cheap but solid.”
“Night shift, let’s go. [Photo: tea shop counter chaos]”
“Got paid today. One step closer. [Photo: a few crumpled bills]”

One photo showed a blurred transaction—Karen’s monthly deposit of $150.