The Money for My Daughter
Three thousand – a measly number that has to support both my daughter and me.
My daughter, Shirley Scott, gets home from school and throws her bag on the sofa.
The first thing she says is: Mom, I need two thousand seven for living expenses next month.
I nearly dropped the bowl I was holding.
The water splashed onto my apron, like the frantic pounding of my heart.
"Shirley," I swallowed hard, my voice tight. "I only make three thousand a month, and I'm giving you two thousand seven. How am I supposed to survive?"
Shirley Scott snapped her head up, her eyes wide and glaring.
Her eyes held no pity, only impatience: "You can live on white rice porridge and pickled vegetables, right?"
I was floored.
Her words were like a needle, stabbing my throat and making it throb.
"You forgot when you were in junior high and had a fever of 39 degrees?" I couldn't help but bring up the past. "I carried you to the hospital. I couldn't even bear to spend money on a taxi, and walked all the way there, wearing out my shoes."
She rolled her eyes and cut me off. "That was ages ago! Why are you bringing that up now!"
She leaned in, raising her voice. "My classmates get *at least* 5000 for living expenses! Some of them can even buy new phones."
Standing there with her hands on her hips, she looked just like her father, David Scott, who we haven't been in contact with in forever.
I remember her when she was little.
The way she used to hug my neck and say, "Mom, I'll take care of you when I grow up," is still flashing before my eyes.
"Shirley, have you forgotten you wanted to learn piano in high school?"
I tried to reason with her, "Back then, each lesson was two hundred. You said you wanted to apply to art school, so I borrowed five thousand from your aunt. I still have to pay back two hundred every month."
She curled her lip, completely unconcerned: "That's what you wanted to do! Why did you to fight for custody in the first place?"
"If I was with my dad, would I have to squeeze into this tiny apartment with you, unable to even afford a new piece of clothing?"
My heart just sank.
She's always going on about her dad, but she forgets David Scott's a gambling maniac. He gambled away all our savings back then and even got us into debt with loan sharks. If I hadn't grabbed her and run in the middle of the night, those collectors would've been knocking down our door years ago.
"Your dad's no good," I said, grabbing her hand, my voice all worked up. "He's just gonna con you out of your money. You can't go to him!"
She yanked her hand away, wiping it on her clothes like I was dirt. "Don't touch me! My dad told me he's gonna buy me the newest Tablet in a few days!"
"I contacted him a long time ago. He said he's started a small company and has plenty of money!"
So she'd been contacting David Scott all along, and actually bought his bullcrap.
I didn't sleep that night.
The living room light stayed on all night. I stared at the ceiling, tossing and turning, unable to figure it out—where did I go wrong, raising a daughter like that?
The next morning, Shirley Scott came back to demand money.
She blocked the kitchen doorway, not letting me cook: "Are you going to give it to me or not? If you don't, I'm going to my dad and let him see how you're abusing me, and I'll get the netizens to curse you!"
I caved.
I'm scared she'll actually go running to David Scott, scared she'll fall into some kind of hellhole, and even more scared she'll start blabbing online and ruin the stable life I've finally managed to build.
I called the boss, my voice all pleading: "Mr. Warren, is there any way I could get a half-month advance on my paycheck? My daughter needs living expenses for school, I'm flat broke."
The other end of the phone was quiet for a minute, then Mr. Warren sighed: "Linda. An advance is doable, but you'll lose your performance bonus for the month. You sure about that?"
I gritted my teeth: "I'm sure, thanks Mr. Warren."
After hanging up, I took the fifteen hundred I'd gotten as an advance, added it to the twelve hundred I'd saved, scraped together twenty-seven hundred, and handed it to Shirley Scott.
She snatched it, shoved it in her bag, didn't even say thank you.
Turned around and went back to her room to pack, said she was going to school early to hang out with her classmates.
I wanted to drive her, and see her dorm while I was there.
But she waved me off, sounding disgusted: "No, don't bother. If you go to school dressed like that, people will think you're my grandma. How embarrassing."
The door slammed shut, "bang," cutting off my words and killing off the last bit of warmth I had left.
Clutching the last three hundred in my hand.
I did the math; this month I can only afford ten grams of rice and some pickled vegetables. If I stretch it, I should be able to barely scrape by.
No more than three days later, Shirley Scott's cousin, Mike, called me.
He stammered, beating around the bush for ages: "Shirley told me you only give her 800 for living expenses each month. Isn't that a bit tight?"
I was floored.
Eight hundred? She's taking two thousand seven, the liar!
"She also said she was sick, with a cold and fever, and had no money for medicine, so she borrowed five hundred from me." Mike then added, "Aunt, Shirley's still your daughter, after all. If you're strapped for cash, I can help out a bit."
My heart leaped into my throat. I grabbed my coat and rushed to her school—if she was really sick, why the hell didn't she tell me?
Her school's way down south, an hour on the bus.
I get carsick, and I threw up twice on the way. I was white as a sheet, and my legs were shaking when I got off.
When I got to the school gate, I was just about to call her when I saw Shirley Scott walking out with some guy.
The guy was carrying a video game console box. Shirley Scott was hanging onto his arm, grinning like a Cheshire cat. She didn't look sick in the slightest.
"Shirley, this is for you. You said you wanted this video game console yesterday, so I bought it for you today."
The boy handed over the box, his tone totally doting.
Shirley Scott stood on tiptoe and kissed him: "You're the best! I'll get you that new headset next month."
The blood rushed straight to my head.
So that 2700 she wanted wasn't for living expenses at all; she blew it all on this guy!
"Shirley Scott!" I couldn't help but shout.
She turned around and saw me, and her face instantly changed, like a cat whose tail had been stepped on.
The boy asked, confused: "Shirley, who's this?"
Shirley Scott hurriedly pushed me aside, hissing: "It's nobody, just some bottle-collecting woman. I got some empties from her before, and now she's back."
She pulled an empty water bottle from her bag and shoved it into my hand: "Get lost, you're in the way. We're going to eat food."
I gripped that bottle, my knuckles white, my hand shaking like a leaf.
"You're using *my* money to buy video game consoles for someone else?" My voice was trembling. "I'm getting wage advances, living on next to nothing, just to pay your living expenses, and this is what you do with it?"
She got impatient and dragged the guy away: "It's none of your business how I spend it! Once you give me the money, it's mine to spend on whoever I well please!"
"Besides, so what if I'm dating? What do you even know about love? All you'll ever do is rot in this dump, living such a miserable life!"
I remember last winter, I went to school to bring her a quilt.
Downstairs in the teaching building, some boy harassed me. He bumped into me on purpose and said some nasty things. I grabbed him right then and there and made a scene in the dean's office, making him apologize to me.
But after Shirley Scott showed up, she didn't just not help; she grabbed my arm and hissed in my ear, "Mom, are you out of your mind? So many people are watching! Apologize to him right now!"
"Have you forgotten about what happened last year when I was harassed?" I looked at her, and my heart just froze over. "Back then, you said *I* was embarrassing. Now you're blowing my money on this guy, and you don't think *that's* embarrassing?"
Her eyes darted away, but she still snapped back, "That's because you weren't careful enough! You were dressed so inappropriately. You look like an easy target!"
"I'm with him now, and he's a hundred times better to me than you!"
That sentence completely snuffed out the last bit of hope I had.
I took a deep breath, my voice eerily calm: "You want to find your dad, right? I'll give you his address."
Her eyes lit up like she'd seen a savior: "Really? You're not lying to me, are you?"
Without the slightest hesitation, without even a backward glance, as if I wasn't her mom, just some stranger handing her an address.
I went home and dug out an old address David Scott left behind years ago—his hometown address.
I always kept it in mind, just in case he came looking for trouble someday.
I sent Shirley Scott the address with a little message: "Don't come crying to me when you regret it."
She didn't reply, probably already busy packing her stuff, getting ready to go find her "rich daddy."
That very night, Shirley Scott packed her bags and left.
Before leaving, she even rummaged through my drawer and took the two hundred of emergency money I kept there – the money I was saving to pay the utilities.
I heard her close the door, didn't go out to see her off, just sat on the sofa, looking at the empty house, and felt this weird mix of relief and being wronged.
Before I knew it, things got crazy right outside my door.
Someone was pounding on the door, loud as hell: "Linda Lincoln! Get your *ss out here! Not giving your daughter living expenses, and then keeping her from her father! That’s terrible!"
"If you can't afford raising a kid, don't have one! Letting her suffer with you, and you got the nerve to hide in the house!"
I peeked through the peephole, and a whole crowd was gathered at the door. Some of them were live streaming with their phones, pointing right at my apartment number.
I grabbed my phone and checked Shirley Scott's social media. The first video was her – wearing my old clothes, sleeves all messed up and dirty, hair a mess, kneeling on the ground bawling.
"Guys, I'm seriously having such a hard time," she said, wiping away tears, her voice all choked up, "My mom makes three thousand a month and only gives me eight hundred for living expenses. I'm practically starving to death."
"I wanna go find my dad, but she won't let me. She says he's a bad person, but she's just scared I'll be better off than her..."
The comments under the video are all ripping me apart.
"This mom's so selfish! Let the kid go find her dad!"
"How can you even live on eight hundred in college? That's barely enough for food!"
"What's her address? Let's go help this girl get some justice!"
My hands are shaking, fingertips like ice.
I texted Shirley Scott, wanting to know what the hell she was up to.
She texted back quick, no guilt whatsoever, just ordering me around: "Mom, I can't reach my dad, his phone's dead. You gotta find him for me."
"If you don't, I'm gonna keep posting those videos, letting everyone know what you're really like."
"Your dad's no good, he'll only screw you over, you'll regret it." I texted her back.
Instant reply: "Regret it? You're just jealous 'cause I'm doing alright!"
I didn't reply, just blocked her number.
The people outside are still kicking up a fuss, banging on the door louder and louder. I'm too scared to open it, just hiding in the bedroom, hands clamped over my ears, but I can still hear their insults.
The knocking stopped the next morning.
I figured they'd finally gone, and was just about to open the door to get a drink, when I caught a whiff of something rotten.
Peeking through the peephole, I saw a pile of crap smeared all over the doorway, flies buzzing everywhere, and someone had scrawled "selfish b*tch" on the door in red paint.
My stomach lurched, and I was sick right there on the floor.
This house... I practically broke my back getting a ten-year loan for it, just so she could be near her school.
I didn't even bother with renovations, just slapped on some white paint and bought second-hand furniture. And now look at the state of it!
I called the Agent, my voice all croaky: "I want to sell that house, the one I mentioned before."
The Agent showed up quick. She took one look at the mess by the door, then at my face, white as a sheet, and sighed. "You've been cyberbullied, haven't you? This isn't going to make selling it easy."
I lowered my head: "Doesn't matter how much, just sell it quick, I gotta get outta here."
The agent walked around the house, then stopped dead, eyes all lit up: "This place... it's in Building 3 of Happy Residence, right?"
I nodded: "Yeah, so?"
She grabbed my hand, real excited: "You hit the jackpot! This whole area's getting demolished! Policy just dropped yesterday, compensation's gonna be at least 20 million, plus you get to pick two relocation houses!"
The cup in my hand went "clang" and crashed to the floor, water everywhere.
Demolition and relocation? Twenty million? How come I've never heard about this before?
"Really? Is this for real?” I couldn't believe it. "I asked the neighborhood committee about it before, and they said this house would last at least another ten years."
The Agent quickly pulled out his phone and showed me the policy documents: "Look, the city government just announced it. They're building a commercial center in this area, and demolition starts next month. If you want to sell, I can help you!"
I looked at the documents on the phone, and tears just started streaming down my face.
After suffering for so many years, scrimping and saving, not even willing to buy myself a new piece of clothing, finally there's a glimmer of hope.
I started packing things up, putting all the important documents and photos into boxes.
I'd just finished cleaning up when I saw this dusty, disheveled figure run up, hair all over the place and holes in her clothes.
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