The Perfect Mother's Dirty Secret I Exposed Her at My Own PartyChapter 1
My mother transferred $5,000 into my account every month for spending money, and all our relatives said she gave too much.
But only I knew the truth. I couldn't touch a single cent of it without permission.
Textbook fees had to be itemized. Topping up my meal card required a screenshot of the balance. Even buying a $0.50 gel pen meant I had to bring the empty ink refill home, set it on the desk for her inspection.
If I was a second too slow, she'd lay into me.
"Blowing my hard-earned money again! How did I end up with such a wasteful brat!"
Then I got my acceptance letter from Weston University and needed to pay $1,200 in tuition and fees. I begged her to transfer the money first. All she said was:
"Without an official payment receipt from the school, how do I know you're not faking it to steal my money and funnel it to your deadbeat father?"
That night I sat on the living room floor, staring at what she'd posted on social media.
A single mother willing to bleed herself dry to put her daughter through college.
I laughed out loud.
……
At eleven o'clock at night, my mother's social media updated right on schedule.
A grid of photos, front and center: a screenshot showing a $5,000 transfer to her daughter.
The caption was a single line:
I'd sell everything I own to give my child the best. Mom will always be your rock.
The comments piled up fast.
"Lily Fox, you're incredible! Five thousand a month for spending money? You're not raising a daughter, you're raising a princess!"
"And the kid delivered too. Weston University! Lily, your life is made!"
Aunt Diane Mercer was the first to hit like, comment right behind it: "I've always said it. That girl getting into Weston is all because of you, Lily, holding it down on your own. All that sacrifice. It really wasn't easy."
Vanessa Mercer jumped in too: "Wow, Queenie Pruitt, you're so lucky to have a mom like that!"
I sat on the floor, my back pressed against the edge of the bed, staring at that post. My fingers curled tighter, one knuckle at a time.
Five thousand.
Five thousand a month in spending money.
I looked down at the stack of crumpled draft paper on the desk. In the corner, half a gel pen lay pinned under the pile. The ink had run dry, so I'd switched to another one to keep writing.