My estranged daughter suddenly appeared on a popular daytime talk show. “Before I was fifteen, I was the happiest kid in the world,” she told the host, her voice trembling. “But then, my mother just… changed.” “When I was so depressed I wanted to kill myself, my own mother told me to go ahead and die.” “From that year on, she barely spoke to me. She didn't even come to my wedding, or see her own grandchild.” “I don’t know why she did it,” she sobbed, looking directly into the camera. “But no matter what, I want to say, ‘Mom, I will always love you.’” Later, the show’s producers contacted me, hoping to orchestrate a televised reconciliation. I refused without a second thought. Watching her fraudulent performance, I scoffed. “That piece of trash,” I muttered to the empty room. “She doesn’t deserve a mother.” … I had just gotten home when my old friend called. “Sarah, your Jessie is on TV. It’s The Ashton Pierce Show. You need to see this.” I turned on the television. I hadn’t seen my daughter, Jessica, in years. She was only twenty-eight, but she looked haggard, more like forty. What came out of her mouth next, however, was a fresh reminder of her bottomless capacity for deceit. “I was fifteen, I was a teenager,” she wept to the host. “Isn’t it normal to be a little rebellious?” “I just suddenly didn’t want to go to school anymore. There was no other reason. I wasn’t getting into any real trouble.” “My mom is a teacher. She’s supposed to be the best at educating people, but with me… she had no patience at all.” “I talked back to her a few times, and I joked that I didn’t want to live anymore. But she just looked at me, cold as ice, and told me to go die.” I remembered that day. It was our first truly terrible fight. After I said those words, she had thrown on a jacket and run out. We lived on the fourth floor. She climbed out the hallway window and jumped. There was a pile of junk the neighbors had put out for collection down below. She landed on it. There was blood everywhere, but she didn’t die. Her father had run down in a panic, calling an ambulance to rush her to the hospital. Now, she recounted it with a tearful, wounded voice. “My own mother… while I was lying in a pool of my own blood, dying… she just walked past me without a word. She went to work like it was any other day.” “I was in the hospital for over a month. My mother never visited me. Not once.” The live comments on the screen exploded. [How can anyone be that cold-blooded? That’s her own daughter.] [Suddenly my mom seems like an angel, even when she grounds me for a month.] [And she’s a teacher? Someone doxx this woman and get her fired!] I trembled as I read the venomous comments. How did she have the audacity to say these things? The host offered some comforting words. Jessica wiped her tears and continued. “When I finally came home, my mom just stopped talking to me completely. And because of her, my dad became distant, too.” “Before I was fifteen, we went on a family vacation every year. After that, we didn't even go to the mall together on a weekend.” She claimed she spent her entire high school life suffering under my silent, cold abuse. “After graduation,” she went on, “I wanted a laptop for college. The only thing she said to me was that I didn’t deserve one.” “Later, she told me I was an adult and she didn’t have to support me anymore. She threw me out of the house.” “It’s been over a decade. My graduation, my wedding, the birth of my child… she wasn’t there for any of it. My dad gave me a check for a thousand dollars for my wedding, and that was it.” She turned to the camera again, her eyes pleading. “Mom, I really do love you. It’s been so long. Can’t we let go of whatever grudge this is?” “Thanksgiving is just around the corner. Can’t we please be a family again?” She sobbed so hard she could barely breathe. The live feed went wild with a fresh wave of vitriol. The producers quickly disabled the comments. It would be a lie to say the hateful words didn’t hurt. But if I had to do it all over again, I would make the same choice. The pain of a toxic family has always been a hot-button issue. After the live broadcast, clips of her interview went viral. As expected, I, the heartless mother, was subjected to a brutal online mobbing. Netizens figured out which university I taught at, even though I was already retired. The school’s official website, forums, and alumni pages were flooded with condemnations and insults. [This university is cursed to have a teacher like her.] [You need to vet for character, not just academic credentials. Otherwise, you’re just producing garbage.] [To give birth but not to raise is to be less than human!] [She has a good public reputation, but she tortures her own child at home. She’s a monster.] A few former colleagues and students tried to defend me, but their voices were drowned out in the deluge of hate. The university called me in. In the president’s office, he looked pained. “Sarah, given the public outcry, we’re temporarily removing your profile from the distinguished faculty page. I hope you understand.” “But rest assured,” he added quickly, “we’ve worked together for decades. We know the kind of person you are. The truth will come out eventually, and we will restore your honors.” I told him I understood. But when I saw my name vanish from the school’s website, a career of over thirty years of hard work erased in an instant, I couldn’t stop the tears from falling. When I got back to my apartment building, the scene outside my door made me freeze. The door was covered in red spray paint. Words like MONSTER and TRASH were scrawled across it, with vile curses covering the entire wall. The floor was splattered with some foul-smelling, unknown liquid. I didn't dare go inside. I hid in the nearby stairwell, my hands shaking as I called my husband, Rob. He rushed home immediately. Our next-door neighbor heard the commotion and peeked out. Seeing us, she let out a sigh of relief. “Sarah, those people were awful. If I hadn’t threatened to call the police, they were going to wait for you.” “I recorded them,” she said, handing me her phone. “If you want to report it, this is evidence.” I looked at the video. The man leading the pack was horribly familiar. It was that troublemaker from years ago. My daughter’s husband, Kyle. “I don’t know what happened between you and your daughter,” our neighbor said kindly, “but you two are good people. I know you’re not like that.” After thanking her, I copied the video to my computer. My husband, Rob, a typically mild-mannered man, was seething. “Sarah, we have to call the police.” Two days of online harassment had sent my blood pressure soaring. My head was spinning, but I knew it wasn’t time yet. “Let’s just wait,” I said. Rob hesitated. “Sarah… my office saw the interview. And some people showed up there, too.” “The director… he suggested I take some time off. A leave of absence.” “What?!” I cried out. “But you’re retiring in two months! A leave of absence now will affect your pension, your record!” “This is a nightmare,” Rob sighed, his voice full of despair. “We never should have had her.” He was never good with words, but he held me close. “It’s okay. The pension will be a little less, but we have enough to live on.” He knew it wasn’t the money I cared about. It was his reputation, built over decades of dedicated work, now tarnished. The events of the past few days stoked the embers of resentment I held for my daughter into a raging fire. “Honey,” Rob said quietly. “Do you think… maybe Jessie is in some kind of trouble?” “Does she not have our address? Does she not have our phone number? No, Rob! She’s using public opinion to force our hand!” “Have you already forgotten the lesson we learned the last time we were soft-hearted?” At the mention of that, he fell silent. For the next few days, I felt the stares and heard the whispers whenever I went out for groceries. I decided to stop leaving the apartment altogether. The vandalism incident had prompted the building management to tighten security, so at least we had a couple of days of peace. Buzzzzzzz. A loud humming sound from outside the window caught my attention. A drone was hovering right outside our living room. Hanging from it was a banner. The words made the blood rush to my head. Printed in blood-red letters on a white cloth, it read: DAUGHTER ABANDONER DESERVES TO DIE! The world tilted. I felt a wave of dizziness, and then everything went black. When I opened my eyes again, I was in a hospital room. Rob was by my side, his face etched with worry. He let out a huge breath when he saw I was awake. “The person flying the drone has been arrested, honey. I called the police. Don’t you worry.” At the police station, the drone operator admitted he was just paid to do it. He’d seen the story online and thought I was a terrible mother. Seeing me collapse and the ambulance arrive had scared him half to death. “I just thought I was helping fight an injustice!” he’d told the police. “It was that guy, Kyle. He said we were using righteousness to defeat evil.” “I thought it was just a banner! I never meant to hurt anyone!” He’d even handed over the cash Kyle had paid him. The police relayed the story to us and asked how we wanted to proceed. I knew who the real source of the problem was. I didn’t want to press charges against the drone operator. After a fine and a formal statement, they let him go. Seeing my pale face, Rob squeezed my hand. “Sarah, maybe we should move.” “That rotten kid… what in God’s name is he trying to do?” I shook my head. “With the internet, where could we possibly move that they wouldn’t find us?” My collapse was due to high blood pressure, so the doctors wanted to keep me for a week of observation. I had a sinking feeling. If they could get to me at home, the hospital wouldn't be a sanctuary. “Rob,” I said, “go home and get that folder from my desk. I have a feeling I’m going to need it soon.” He nodded without question and left. I had barely closed my eyes to rest when a commotion erupted outside my room. A moment later, a familiar voice cut through the noise. “Mom! Are you okay, Mom?” I opened my eyes to see Jessica kneeling by my bedside, clutching my hand. Behind her stood the camera crew from the TV show. I tried to pull my hand away, but she gripped it tighter. “Mom, please,” she wept. “Stop being stubborn with me, okay?” A surge of anger shot through me. “Are you blind? You’re pressing on my IV!” She looked down and saw the tube backing up with blood. She let go with a sheepish smile. “I was just so worried about you. I got carried away. Can’t you just talk to me nicely for once?” There were other patients in the room, and a small crowd had gathered at the door. I didn’t want to engage with her. I just turned my head away. The reporter stepped forward. “Mrs. Miller? Hi, I’m from The Ashton Pierce Show. We were contacted by your daughter, Jessica. It seems there’s been a terrible misunderstanding between you two.” “It’s clear she loves you very much. Perhaps now is a good time to clear the air? With Thanksgiving coming up, it would be wonderful for your family to reunite.” I closed my eyes. “There is no misunderstanding. Please leave. I don’t have a daughter.” “Mom!” Jessica cried out, desperate. I saw the man lurking by the door—Kyle—and all the recent events flashed through my mind. I looked Jessica straight in the eye. “I said, you are not my daughter. You two pieces of trash are not worthy!” A collective gasp went through the room. The other patients began to whisper. “Wow, what kind of hate is that? To say something so awful on camera.” “The internet was right. She doesn’t deserve to be a mother. Calling her own daughter trash.” “Yeah, if her daughter is trash, what does that make her? The whole dumpster, hahaha.” The crowd snickered. The words hit me like a physical blow, and my face went pale. The reporter’s expression soured. She clearly hadn’t expected me to be so blunt. “Mrs. Miller, I should remind you, this is a live broadcast. Everything you’re saying is going out to thousands of viewers. Please choose your words carefully.” Jessica remained kneeling, momentarily speechless. The man at the door, Kyle, cleared his throat. That was her cue. Jessica snapped back into character. “Mom, what did I do wrong? You used to love me so much, didn't you?” She pulled a small, worn doll from her bag. “Mom, look. You made this for me when I was a little girl. I’ve kept it safe all these years.” I stared at the little stuffed monkey. For a moment, I was transported back. I had made that for her twelfth birthday. Then, I snapped. I snatched it from her hand and hurled it out the open window. “Get out! I will never acknowledge you as my daughter!” Jessica shrieked and lunged for the window, pretending she was going to jump out to retrieve the doll. The reporter grabbed her. “Mrs. Miller, are you really this heartless?” the reporter yelled, holding Jessica back. “She cares about you so much!” “Let her go,” I said, my voice flat. “She’s faking it.” The reporter hesitated. Jessica, realizing her bluff was called, sank to her knees in front of me again and started slapping her own face. “Yes, that’s right! In your eyes, I’m always faking it!” she cried. “When I jumped from our building at fifteen, fractured my skull, and bled all over the pavement, was I faking it then, too?” “When you threw me out of the house and I had to live without a mother or father, was that also an act?” With just a few sentences, she had perfectly cemented my image as the cruel, unfeeling monster. I could only imagine what the live comments looked like now. A woman from the next bed rushed over and held her arms. “Honey, stop! There’s no grudge between a mother and daughter that can’t be fixed. This has gone too far.” A nurse, drawn by the noise, came to tell us to be quiet, then stopped dead in her tracks at the scene. “Excuse me, coming through.” Rob had returned. He looked startled by the crowd. Seeing I was okay, he relaxed, but then he saw our daughter kneeling on the floor. His soft heart took over, and he moved to help her up. “Don’t you touch her!” I commanded. I glared at Jessica. “I’m asking you one last time. Are you leaving, or not?”
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