My mom is a Forbes-listed billionaire, constantly traveling, almost impossible to pin down. My dad was her “supportive partner behind the scenes,” the one who raised me. He always claimed my mom looked down on us, seeing us as small-town people, only sending $120 a month for my expenses, calling us ungrateful dogs. Because of that, I absolutely hated her. Until my mom suddenly appeared on my college campus, frowning as she pointed at the cafeteria food and asked: “I send you $30,000 every month. Is *this* all you eat?” … My phone screen lit up. It was a bank text notification. [Robert Miller transferred $120.00 to your account ending in XXXX.] One hundred twenty dollars. The number felt like a needle, sharply piercing my already strained nerves. I put my phone down. My stomach was churning with an empty, aching cramp. To save money, I’d only eaten one meal yesterday. This $120 had to last me a whole thirty days. My roommate, Mia, leaned over to peek and immediately spoke up for me. “Skylar, is your mom made of stone? What can $120 do in a big city like ours?” “I grabbed a bubble tea yesterday, and it was over five bucks! Is she just trying to get rid of you?” As she spoke, she casually picked up a bottle of imported skincare from her desk. That tiny serum alone cost over $150. I managed a smile that was more like a grimace. She didn’t get it. My high-and-mighty mom probably *did* think we were just beggars. My mind was filled with my dad’s “helpless” face. From childhood, he’d always whispered in my ear. “Skylar, your mom is a city person. Deep down, she looks down on us small-town folk.” “She doesn’t think much of me, and even less of you, and your sickly Uncle Paul, and your elderly Grandma Rose and Grandpa Arthur.” “Every time I go to her, begging her to let you have a better life, how does she humiliate me? She says our Miller family is a bunch of ungrateful parasites, leeches trying to suck her dry.” Those words were like poisoned seeds, taking root deep inside me and festering. My phone rang. It was my dad. “Skylar…” His voice sounded tired. “This month… still $120.” “I begged her, I really got on my knees and begged her, but your mom said not a penny more.” He paused, then added, “It’s all Dad’s fault for being useless, making you suffer like this with me.” Anger and heartbreak surged within me. It wasn’t his fault! He had already endured too much humiliation from that woman for my sake! A grown man, reduced to begging on his knees for his daughter’s allowance—how much courage did that take? “Dad, don’t talk like that!” I urgently cut him off. “I can find a part-time job at school. I can support myself!” “Good girl…” On the other end of the line, his voice choked up. “Just don’t starve yourself, okay?” I hung up the phone. The dorm room was eerily quiet. I pulled out a two-day-old loaf of white bread from my drawer, tore open the package, and took a huge, desperate bite. It was dry and hard, almost impossible to swallow. My phone lit up again. It was a message from the class group chat about a get-together. Everyone was chatting excitedly. [Tonight we’re celebrating Ryan’s birthday! Karaoke and late-night eats at our usual spot, don’t miss it!] [I heard we’re going to that new Japanese place. It’s like $50 per person, minimum!] [It’s Dutch, by the way! But for Ryan, let’s all go big!] Jessica, the class belle, even tagged everyone specifically. [@everyone, come on out! No excuses tonight! Nobody’s allowed to miss this!] I flipped my phone face down on the table, trying to shut out their world. But the next second, Jessica tagged me precisely. [@Skylar Miller, Skylar, you should come too. It’s Ryan’s birthday, you can’t miss it! You’re usually so low-key, tonight you really need to come and have some fun!] My fists clenched. Fifty dollars. For them, it was just a regular dinner out. For me, it was ten days’ worth of living expenses. I picked up my phone, my fingertip hovering over the screen, typing and deleting, typing and deleting again. Finally, I left just one line: [Sorry, I have a part-time job tonight, so I can’t make it. Happy Birthday, Ryan!] It was a lie. But I had no choice. I was too poor to go. I quietly turned off the screen, retreating into the darkness of my own world. All the normal joys of college life had nothing to do with me. That night, I had a dream. My mother, who only existed on the pages of financial magazines, looked down on my father, who lay crumpled on the ground where she’d pushed him. “Robert Miller, you and your small-town daughter are just two pathetic, tail-wagging dogs!” 2 A few days later, a poster for a distinguished alumni lecture appeared on the school’s bulletin board. The name Vivienne Sullivan was boldly printed in the center. My mind buzzed, and I turned to leave instantly. But Mia grabbed my arm, screaming excitedly: “Skylar, look! It’s Vivienne Sullivan! The real-life Forbes billionaire!” “Oh my god, we actually get to see her in person! I heard she makes billions a year!” “Yeah, yeah! My mom worships her as an inspiration; her pictures are plastered all over our house!” Another roommate joined us, her eyes sparkling. They dragged me along, pushing and shoving me into the packed lecture hall. Vivienne stood on the stage. Dressed in a sharp, elegant business suit, she spoke clearly and logically about business strategy and future trends. She was completely different from the hysterical, mean-spirited woman my dad described. A strange unease began to stir in my heart. After the lecture, the college leadership swarmed her, surrounding her in the center. I blended into the crowd, head down, just wanting to slip away quickly. “Skylar Miller.” The entire hall instantly went silent. Hundreds of eyes swiveled to stare at me. There was nowhere to hide. I just stood there, frozen. She ignored everyone else and walked directly to me. “Come with me.” She pulled me out of the lecture hall. The whispers from the crowd surged around me like a tide. “Oh my god, is she Ms. Sullivan’s daughter?” “No way, look at what she’s wearing. Is that from a discount store?” “If she really is her daughter, how is she so broke?” Those words were sharper than knives, cutting me deeply. I clenched my fists, saying nothing. She took me to the cafeteria, right during lunch rush. I braced myself and got my food: the usual, a serving of greens and a small portion of white rice, totaling about $1.50. She frowned, looking at the meager greens and white rice on my tray. “I send you $30,000 every month. Is *this* all you eat?” Thirty thousand? Those words exploded in my mind. “What… what $30,000?” My voice trembled uncontrollably. I’d only ever received $120! My mom paused, surprised. “I transfer $30,000 to you on the 15th of every month.” She turned her phone screen towards me. There were dense, detailed transfer records, each for $30,000, with my dad’s name as the recipient. My world completely collapsed. My hands and feet turned ice cold, my mind a total blank. Where did all that money go? “Your dad didn’t give it to you?” My mom looked at me, confused. I forced myself to compose, managing a stiff smile. “Dad told me all about it. The money was received.” The moment the lie left my lips, I saw the tension in my mom’s furrowed brow visibly ease. “Skylar, it’s my fault. I’ve been so busy all these years, I could only try to make it up to you with money.” “Oh, and by the way,” she added casually, “The sports car I gave you for your eighteenth birthday, why don’t I ever see you driving it? Your dad said you didn’t like it, so I didn’t ask further.” A car? Another thing I’d never heard of. I squeezed my hands, hidden in my pockets, trying desperately to stay calm. “Driving at school… it’s too flashy, I don’t want to drive it right now, and parking is a hassle.” I threw out a random excuse, just wanting to escape. After saying goodbye to my mom, I practically ran back to my dorm. I slammed the door shut, leaning back against it, my body sliding uncontrollably to the floor. Trembling, I found the number in my contacts that I’d never dialed before. “Mom.” The call was answered almost instantly. “Skylar?” I bit down hard on my lower lip, forcing myself to speak. “Mom, I… I need to ask you for some money? It’s urgent.” There wasn’t a hint of hesitation from her. “Okay, how much do you need?” “F-five… five thousand.” I blurted out a number I barely dared to imagine. “I’ll transfer it to you right away.” “Mom, I’ll give you a new card number. Send it there.” “No problem.” Less than ten seconds after hanging up, my phone vibrated. A text notification: $7,500, instantly deposited. The message attached said: “If it’s not enough, just tell me, don’t hold back.” I stared at the words, tears streaming down my face. Was this… the mom I’d hated for eighteen years? I wiped away my tears, then with trembling fingers, opened another chat window. I took a deep breath and typed a line: “Dad, I urgently need some money. Can you please beg Mom for me again?” His reply was as quick as always. “You know your mom’s temper, don’t you? She won’t give it. Skylar, you need to learn to solve problems yourself.” “My begging her will only make her look down on us more.” “Don’t think about it anymore, Dad can’t help.” I stared at the words on the screen, my blood turning to ice. For eighteen years, I’d been a fool, completely manipulated by him. Using the money my mom had just transferred, I hired the most professional private investigator online. My goal was simple. My dad, Robert Miller’s, bank statements for all his accounts. 3 At 2 AM, I opened the encrypted file. Every month on the 15th, a transfer of $30,000 arrived promptly from my mom’s company account. And every month on the 16th, an amount of $29,880 was transferred out, like clockwork. The recipient’s name was Paul Miller. My very own uncle, the one my dad described as “sickly” and “bedridden for years”! One hundred twenty dollars. So my $120 allowance, Was what my dad and his dear brother scraped from between their teeth and deigned to give me. No wonder my cousin, Brandon, drove a sports car and wore designer clothes at such a young age. No wonder every time I went back to my hometown, Grandma Rose and Grandpa Arthur looked at me with scorn and disdain. They must have thought I was a pathetic waste, only fit to receive $120. And my dad, Robert Miller, was the hero of their Miller family. A great hero who endured humiliation to swindle wealth and luxury from his “wicked” wife for their family! I stared at the bank statement report, my heart feeling like it had been thrown into an ice-cold well. I dragged the file to the trash and permanently shredded it. The next day, it happened to be the 16th. My dad’s call came in right on time: “Skylar, you got the money, right? Spend it carefully, don’t buy anything frivolous.” “Got it, Dad,” I squeezed out, forcing my voice to sound small. “You had to beg her for me again. You really work so hard.” On the other end, I heard a satisfied sigh. “As long as you’re doing well, it’s worth any humiliation Dad has to endure.” I hung up, then expressionlessly clicked on my cousin Brandon’s social media. His latest post showed him grinning smugly in a brand-new Porsche Cayenne. The caption read: “Thanks to my uncle, he pulled off another huge deal! Legend!” Below it was a string of likes and nauseating compliments from our Miller family relatives. Auntie Clara: “Robert is truly the pillar of our Miller family! So successful!” Uncle Mark: “Our Miller family owes so much to Robert! Enduring humiliation, all for our family!” The suppressed hatred in my chest erupted like a volcano. I immediately called my dad back. “Dad, the school… there’s an overseas exchange opportunity, it’s really amazing, but it requires a $45,000 security deposit.” I tried to make my voice tremble. “Dad, this might be the only chance for our Miller family to truly hold our heads high! I don’t want to miss it!” I sniffled, performing the urgent and helpless tone to perfection. He exploded immediately, just as I expected: “$45,000?! Skylar Miller, have you gone crazy with all that studying?” “Where am I supposed to get you $45,000? That woman will kill me! She won’t give a single cent!” I dug my nails into my palms, trying to keep my voice steady. “But… I heard from a friend that for things like this, if it’s for the child’s good, moms usually support it…” I deliberately paused, then added: “Oh, by the way, last time Ms. Sullivan… my mom was at school, she gave me her new private number. She said I could call her directly if it was urgent.” “Maybe… I’ll just ask her myself? Maybe if she’s happy, she’ll agree?” The phone line went dead silent. One second. Two seconds. Even his breathing disappeared. Then, my dad’s voice, frantic and distorted: “No! Skylar! Absolutely not!” “Don’t go and humiliate yourself! You don’t know what kind of person your mom is! She’ll utterly humiliate you!” “Don’t worry about the money! I’ll figure something out! I’ll sell everything we own! I’ll get down on my knees and beg her!” “Wait for my news! Don’t you dare contact her yourself!” I listened to his rambling, incoherent rant without a word, until he hung up. Half an hour later, my phone vibrated. It was a text from my dad: [Skylar, I’ll find a way for the money. Just don’t contact your mom, otherwise, our father-daughter relationship will truly be over.] I looked at the word “over” and chuckled. No, Dad. *You* are over. 4
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