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Mother’s love is like a landslide
Chapter 1
Last time around, my own daughter shoved
me down an elevator shaft.
“Only when you’re gone will I ever be happy,”
she’d spat.
Little did she know, her precious daddy, the
one who claimed to do everything for her,
hadn’t given her a single dime.
He actually wanted her to drop out of school
and get married young.
Meanwhile, I was busting my butt, scrimping
and saving, just to get her into a decent
school.
<
And all I got was her hatred, her calling me
the worst mom ever.
This time?
I kicked her sorry butt right out the front
door.
“Go on, then! Go find your bliss! I’m done!”
The second I came back to life, the phone
rang.
It was her art teacher from that fancy training
program.
“Mrs. Miller, the big art competition is only three months away. Winning could get
Brittany a direct pass to a top art school.”
“She’s got real talent, a sharp mind, picks
things up quick.”
“With consistent practice, keeping her skills
sharp, she could definitely snag a top–three
spot.”
“We have an intensive art camp starting at
the end of the month, you might want to
consider it.”
Hearing those words, I felt the familiar pang
of sadness.
My little girl, Brittany, always loved drawing,
wanted to be a famous artist.
Even though we weren’t rich, I saved up to
send her to lessons, bought her all the
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Now, almost ten years later, it had cost me
hundreds of thousands.
I’d gotten this call last time, too.
Three months locked away in art camp, with
room and board, was gonna run me over four
grand – half a year’s salary.
Back then, I’d just found out my husband,
Tom, was cheating, and his mistress was
already four months pregnant.
Tom wanted all our assets to go towards his
new family.
He was pushing for a divorce so he could run
off and be with her.
When I refused, he started messing with
Brittany’s art.
His mom would show up at my work making a
scene, and he tried every way possible to
shut down the art camp idea.
He knew Brittany was my whole world.
He threatened to take away my parental
rights if I didn’t give up our assets.
I couldn’t fight him, so I took what little
money I had left and signed her up, gritting
my teeth.
Thankfully, the camp worked wonders.
She won first place at the national art
competition, and got her pick of amazing
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I cried happy tears looking at her trophy.
I thought we had finally made it.
But then, during her acceptance speech, she
went full–on drama queen, listing all my
“crimes” over the years.
She said she hated me.
She said I forced her to do art against her
will, wasting her precious time.
She said I drove away her beloved dad and
grandma, keeping them from her.
She said I couldn’t stand her happiness,
tearing her apart from her true love, some
boy.
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She said I was emotionally manipulative,
robbing her of her freedom in the name of
love.
Then she dropped the bomb: “Some people
just don’t deserve to be called mom.”
Her speech went viral, the whole country was
talking about it.
Tons of teenagers empathized with her,
praising her for speaking out, becoming her
fans.
And me?
I was public enemy number one, getting hate calls, my inbox flooded with filth.
My company fired me to avoid bad press.
Friends and family distanced themselves, cut
off contact.
I got so depressed I could barely function,
stuck taking pills just to get through the day.
She secretly switched my meds, making
everything worse.
Then, during an elevator outage, she tricked
me to the hallway and pushed me down the
open elevator shaft from the 26th floor.
As I fell, I heard her hiss, “One last favor,
Mom. Only when you’re dead will I ever be
happy.”
After I died, she pulled out my medical
く
records, convincing the cops it was suicide.
She had my unrecognizable body cremated in
a flash, didn’t even bother with a funeral, just
tossed my ashes in some rundown graveyard.
She said she was finally free.
I poured my time, money, and energy into her.
And that’s how it ended.
Tom and his mom, who barely gave her a
second thought, were all smiles in pictures
with her, getting showered with love online.
I made her shine like the sun, and I became
the villain.
I took a deep breath, and said to the teacher,
“Thanks, but I can’t help you with this. You
need to contact her father.”
وان
If that’s how it’s gonna be, she can have her
freedom.
She loves her boyfriend, her dad, her
grandma? Fine, let her live with them.
I’m done trying.
Saying those words took everything I had.
But the second they were out, a weight lifted
off me.
Turns out, letting go, dropping the baggage,
feels amazing.
stood up looked around
<
I stood up, looked around.
The living room walls were covered with
Brittany’s awards, all from her art.
I thought she treasured them as much as I
did.
But after I died last time, she tossed them all
in the dumpster, along with my clothes,
burned them to ashes.
Our three–bedroom house, we bought it after
years of saving.
Ever since I had Brittany, Tom started
complaining about my weight, my lack of
style, calling me a washed–up hag.
When Brittany was born, he couldn’t handle
the crying, so he started sleeping in a
separate room.
That’s how it’s been ever since.
Tom in one room, Brittany in another, and the
last one became her art studio.
I was stuck sleeping on the sofa bed in the
living room.
If I didn’t fold it back up every morning, he’d
whine about me not doing anything around
the house, saying he should’ve just hired a
maid.
His mom was always nagging me, too, saying
I couldn’t even give him a son, and that I was
lazy, acting like a queen the second I walked
in the door.
I was working my butt off, taking care of the
house, waiting on Tom and Brittany.
I kept my mouth shut, trying to give Brittany a
“stable home.”
Even though I was basically a single parent,
even though he never chipped in for her art
classes, I never brought up divorce.
Turns out, he’d been cheating for years, and
with more than one woman.
His current flavor–of–the–month was already
four months pregnant, with a boy, according
to the doctor.
She was constantly whispering in his ear,
telling him to divorce me and marry her.
L
Tom’s mom wanted a grandson, so she was
pushing him to get it done, bring the new wife
home.
Last time, I gave up everything for Brittany’s
future, silently enduring her calling me poor,
saying I didn’t know how to dress or wear
makeup, saying I embarrassed her by wearing
old clothes when I picked her up from school,
saying I could only afford some crummy
apartment across the street.
Why didn’t she ever think about why I was
poor? Why I only wore old clothes?
Did I want it that way?
Art is way more expensive than regular
school, so I spent all my money on her, didn’t
عاصم
I wanted a better life, I wanted to be a
sophisticated woman, but I couldn’t because
of her.
But hey, I got a do–over.
Without her dragging me down, I can make
bank, buy cute clothes, shoes, bags, use
fancy skincare and makeup.
I can spend my time, money, and energy on
myself.
I’ve got all the time in the world to live my
best life.
I went to Brittany’s art room, which used to
be my room, with my closet.
But as she got older, my stuff got squeezed
r
Brittany had tons of art supplies, always
buying more expensive stuff, overflowing in
half the room.
The closet was full of half–used art supplies.
I thought it was wasteful and tried to
convince her to save some. I told her she
could always get new supplies, but at least
finish the old ones first.
She threw a fit, saying old supplies ruined her
mood, that she couldn’t draw well, that she’d
get embarrassed in class.
She said she’d stop drawing if I made her use
old supplies.
I asked Tom to talk to her, since she always
listened to him.
He didn’t care, said she was right.
He even made fun of me, saying it was my
fault for making her take art lessons in the
first place.
That’s when I realized Tom was behind her
spoiled behavior.
He’d tell her to use new stuff.
He’d say we were rich, that she could replace
anything she wanted.
He wanted to be the “cool” dad, leaving me
the “cheap” mom.
I tried everything, nothing worked.
In the end, I kept my mouth shut.
I took out the art supplies I bought her last
month, all nearly brand new.
She’d said they were ruined, demanded new
ones.
There were tons of expensive supplies in the
closet, a little dirty from paint.
I took them out, cleaned them off, took
pictures, and put them up for sale online.
There were other kids out there who couldn’t
afford art supplies.
Since she didn’t appreciate them, she wasn’t
getting them.
L
I was cleaning up when my phone rang.
It was Tom.
He started yelling without even saying hello.
“Janice! What the hell do you think you’re
doing, having the teacher call me?!”
“Are you trying to make me pay for Brittany’s
extra art lessons? Dream on! That’s not
happening!”
“That stupid art camp costs four grand for
three months? What a rip–off! You think I’m
gonna pay for that? You’re crazy!”
“You’re unbelievable, Janice! You’re getting
worse every day!”
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“I never wanted Brittany taking art classes,
anyway! What’s the point? She’s better off
getting a job!”
“If you want her going to that camp, you pay
for it! I’m not spending a dime! Don’t even
try!”
His voice was so loud, my ears were ringing.
It was almost funny.
This was the dad Brittany loved, the dad who
wouldn’t spend a penny on her.
Last time, I was afraid Tom wouldn’t pay for
art lessons, that he’d ruin her future, so I
refused to give him custody.
