The Perfect Mother's Dirty Secret I Exposed Her at My Own Party

I forced myself back into the classroom, found the homeroom teacher, and stammered out the words.

"Ma'am, my mom asked if she could get… a receipt with the school's official stamp?"

The teacher looked up, her expression blank for a second before her brows knitted together.

"A receipt? For a materials fee?"

I opened my mouth. Nothing came out.

A few classmates who'd been crowded around the teacher's desk went quiet.

Then the whispers crept in.

"Wow, she needs a receipt for fifty bucks? Does she think the teacher's scamming her?"

"Her mom gives her five grand a month and she's making this big a deal over fifty dollars. Either her mom's insanely cheap, or the money never actually reaches her."

"She probably blew it all herself. Why else would this be happening?"

I stood there and let every word slice through me.

The teacher went to the administrative office, got the stamp, and came back. She pressed the receipt into my hand. There was something in her eyes, a flicker of pity she almost managed to hide.

I took a photo of the receipt and sent it to my mother.

Less than thirty seconds later, fifty dollars landed in my account.

I kept my head down, paid the fee, turned around, and walked out. That was when I opened Brody Abbott's social media.

His latest post was from noon today.

In the photo, he was hugging a pair of brand-new limited-edition sneakers, grinning at his reflection in the mirror like he'd won the lottery.

The price tag on the box was perfectly visible.

$500.

The caption was short: "Mom bought these for me. Love you ️"

I stared at that photo for a long time.

Five hundred dollars' worth of sneakers. No invoice. No receipt. No official stamp. Bought without a second thought.

Fifty dollars for a materials fee, and I had to stand in front of my entire class for half an hour. Had to beg for a receipt, beg for a stamp, had to grind my dignity into the floor before she'd transfer the money.

I gripped my phone, tilted my head back, and shoved that breath down hard.

Something was pushing up behind my eyes. I didn't let it out.

A draft blew through the hallway. Cold.

Back in my dorm, I pulled up Brody's profile and scrolled from the top.

Two weeks ago, Mom bought him the latest gaming console. $450.

Last Thursday, a screenshot of a $2,500 transfer appeared in one of his posts. The memo was spelled out in full: "For my baby boy's gaming fund. Enjoy every penny."

Twenty-five hundred dollars.

For video games.

I set my phone down and looked at the text notification showing my meal card balance.

$2.13.

That was all the money I had for the week.

Right then, my phone buzzed.

A text from an unknown number. The header read: Weston University Admissions Office.

My heart stopped. I opened it.

"Ms. Pruitt, your tuition and fees remain unpaid. The payment portal for this enrollment cycle will close tomorrow at 10:00 PM. If payment is not completed by the deadline, your admission will be revoked. Please remit the full amount of $1,300 before the cutoff. No extensions will be granted."

I stared at those words. A low ringing filled my skull.

Thirteen hundred dollars.

I turned the phone over in my hands three times, making sure it wasn't a scam. Checked the sender against the number listed on the admissions office website. Confirmed the deadline was tomorrow night at ten.

Then I set the phone down on the desk, slowly.

My hands started to shake.

$2.13 on my meal card. Nothing in my wallet. Nothing in my bank account. Even the little bit I'd scraped together last month from selling recyclables, money I'd been saving for exactly this kind of emergency, Mom had taken all of it last week. Said she'd hold onto it for me.

I took a deep breath and sent my mother a message.