Chapter 3: Idol Dreams and Digital Nightmares

That evening, I heard her rummaging through her room, coins clattering to the floor.

The sound was oddly comforting—proof that, for once, she was trying to solve her own problems. I listened to the metallic chime, imagining her on her hands and knees, scraping together every penny.

I peeked through her half-closed door and saw her stuffing money from her piggy bank into her backpack.

She moved quickly, head bent, face flushed with effort. The sight of her scraping up change made my heart ache, but I forced myself to stay back, to let her figure it out on her own.

That was her Christmas money saved up over five years.

I remembered helping her count it every year, tucking crisp bills into a plastic container shaped like a gingerbread house. It was supposed to be for something special—something that would last longer than a fleeting pop concert.

She also sold the iPad I’d scrimped and saved to buy her last year.

I found the old box still in her closet, the charger missing. She’d posted it on Facebook Marketplace, the ad still open on her browser. It stung, but I let it go.

I remember she once swore she’d use her Christmas money for a graduation trip.

She’d shown me a brochure for a road trip down Route 66, promising we’d go together, just the two of us. I wondered if she even remembered that now.

Clearly, her idol was more important than her own promise.

The weight of disappointment pressed on my chest, but I reminded myself this was her lesson to learn, not mine to fix.

My daughter went to the concert as she wished, spending two days flooding her Instagram and Snapchat.

Her Snapchat was blowing up—neon wristbands, screaming crowds, selfies under the stadium lights. She even tagged the venue, hoping for a repost.

Photos everywhere: stage close-ups, light sticks, check-ins at the venue—she missed nothing.

I could almost hear her giggling behind the camera, see her bouncing on her toes as the crowd surged around her. She was alive in a way I hadn’t seen in years.

“Babe’s stage is amazing!”

She captioned one video with hearts and sparkles, her joy practically leaping off the screen.

“This is fate. We’re totally meant to meet.”

Her words sounded grandiose, like she was the heroine of her own story, destined for something more than just another small-town life.

There was even a blurry side-profile selfie, captioned: “OMG, Jason just looked this way—he made a heart at me!”

I squinted at the photo, trying to make out the pop star’s face, but it was mostly a blur of stage lights and heads. Still, she seemed convinced it was a sign.

The comments were lively. Classmates liked it, people envied her, and she replied even more enthusiastically: “Babe’s gentle gaze tonight was all for me. I literally cried!”

Her notifications blew up—hearts, comments, the dopamine rush of digital approval. She replied to everyone, her excitement spilling over into every message.

I logged into the alternate account I’d set up long ago, with a profile pic of a random girl, just another inconspicuous fangirl.

My cover was perfect—an avatar of a brunette in a letterman jacket, a generic name like "Cassie M." I’d joined a few fan groups, liking posts and occasionally sharing memes, just enough to stay under the radar.

I clicked on my daughter’s latest Instagram post and commented:

“Umm… you can see his gaze clearly from the nosebleed seats?”

I kept it playful, just another fan poking fun, but I watched closely for her reaction, half-ashamed of my own curiosity.

Soon, dozens of comments popped up under her post. The fans who couldn’t go were salty even through the screen.

I watched the drama unfold like a reality show—one snarky comment snowballed into a full-blown argument, with alliances forming and accusations flying. It was the kind of digital chaos that always ended with someone rage-quitting the group chat.

“Lol, this… nosebleed section, come on, girl.”

“Jason’s heart gesture is for the front row VIPs. Get real.”

“Just now you said Jason was always looking at you, but you were sitting way up top.”

Someone even tagged her directly: “Jason treats all fans the same. Don’t make it weird, thanks.”

The online world was as unforgiving as any high school cafeteria, and I felt a twinge of guilt watching her take the brunt of it.

She replied a few times, trying to defend herself: “You’re just jealous! Babe really looked at me! The more jealous you are, the more I have! Haha!”

Her comebacks got more defensive, her words brittle and strained. I could tell she was rattled, her confidence slipping with each new comment.

But the comments only got harsher, and a few big-name fans chimed in: “Girl, your photo doesn’t even show his face clearly. How can you tell he was looking at you?”

I could feel the tension through the screen, the pile-on getting meaner as fans jockeyed for attention and clout.

Half an hour later, she deleted the post. I couldn’t help but chuckle. As expected, she still cared about her reputation.

Regret gnawed at me. I kept replaying old birthdays and bedtime stories, searching for the moment everything slipped. Was it the divorce? The first time she slammed her door in my face? Or just the slow, steady drift of growing up?

After the divorce, Derek’s child support was never enough. My daughter’s food, clothes, and expenses were all on me.

I clipped coupons, skipped haircuts, and stretched every dollar until it screamed. I kept the lights on and the fridge stocked, but it never felt like enough—not for her, not for me.

Life was like a taut string. I was afraid that being from a single-parent family would make her feel left out, so I’d rather wear old clothes and eat boxed mac and cheese than let her live poorly.

I made her pancakes from scratch on Saturdays, saved up for a trip to Six Flags, did all the little things that I hoped would make up for her missing father. But resentment still grew in the spaces between us.

She thought my sacrifice was her birthright, and her desires grew wild, like weeds.

No matter how much I gave, it was never enough. Her wish lists got longer, her gratitude shorter, and I watched the girl I’d raised slip further away.

Lily was actually very smart—if she put in just a little effort, her grades could be among the best.

I’d seen her ace math tests without studying, quote lines from classic novels, breeze through science fair projects like it was nothing. She had the kind of mind that could open doors, if only she cared to try.

But she used her talent as a bargaining chip. Every time before finals, she’d make a scene, demanding hundreds for concert tickets, limited-edition merch, and fan meet-and-greets, making it hard for me to breathe.

She was a master negotiator, threatening to tank her grades unless I caved to her every demand. I knew it was emotional blackmail, but I still paid up, afraid to risk her future.

I was a clerical accountant, earning $4,000 a month, but after the mortgage, utilities, and daily expenses, there was little left.

My paychecks vanished as soon as they hit the bank—rent, groceries, insurance, Lily’s endless expenses. I budgeted down to the last penny, but somehow there was always more month than money.

For her, I worked overtime for years. My eyes went bad from the strain, my fingers went numb from typing, but she never cared.

I’d come home with my wrists aching, my eyes bloodshot, but she’d barely look up from her phone. It was as if I was invisible, just another piece of furniture in her world.

In my previous life, she went so far as to skip the SATs, and the only time I was tough with her, she pushed me off the balcony.

I still felt the phantom ache in my back, the memory of cold air and sudden emptiness. It was a wound deeper than any bruise—a betrayal that never faded.

After dying once, I finally woke up. Why should I sacrifice my life for her obsession with stardom?

I swore to myself, right then and there, that I’d never let her dreams consume me again. I wanted my life back, even if it meant letting her stumble on her own.

I will never want such an ungrateful child again.

I let the thought settle, hard and clear, like ice water running through my veins. I didn’t owe her my soul. Not anymore.