The Disappearing Maternal Love

Dance lessons for my daughter Caitlyn were costing a fortune, and there I was, scrubbing dishes to cover the fees. Meanwhile, she skipped class to hang out with the local bad crowd.

She was prone to gaining weight and had a penchant for junk food. I urged her to watch her diet, and she shot back, accusing me of being abusive.

She made a splash in a national dance competition and was on the brink of breaking into showbiz, but then, in an interview, she blasted me as a controlling freak, claiming she needed to break free from her "psycho mom".

Later, after a fanatical fan stabbed me, sending me to the hospital, she coldly signed off on the DNR form.

Given a second life, I saw her fall from grace, transforming from a swan to a duckling.

She finally realized that I was right.

Too bad it was too late.

1

Surveying the mess in the living room, still clueless about what had happened, my phone buzzed with a text from Caitlyn's dance instructor.

[Mrs. Thompton, Caitlyn missed class again today. Is she under the weather?]

[Caitlyn's been off her game recently. She's zoning out during the basics and nearly got hurt. We've gotta keep an eye on the kid, right?]

[There's a promo right now. Pay up for the semester, and you get one thousand dollars off the fifty thousand fees.]

Reading those words, it dawned on me—I had a second chance at life!

The last time, when I received this message, my gut reaction was to send the money immediately. After all, saving one thousand dollars meant fewer dishes to wash, and that was a deal I couldn't pass up.

But after making the payment, when Caitlyn didn't pick up her phone, I tracked her down to a dingy internet café.

I burst in to find my vibrant young daughter snuggled up with a dyed-hair punk.

In a fury, I demanded she come with me to dance class. She was my responsibility, and I was determined to get her back on track.

But she stood up in front of everyone, yelling that I was a stalker, and even threatened self-harm if I didn't remove the phone tracker.

I hadn't wanted to put that tracker there in the first place.

Back when Caitlyn was little, I was working non-stop to afford her dance lessons.

Seeing me run ragged, she suggested putting a tracker in her watch. It was a way for her to walk home alone while letting me keep tabs on her whereabouts.

When she got her first cell phone in middle school, the habit just stuck. I never thought it would be used against me as evidence of my so-called control over her life.

I agreed to take off the tracker but still pressed her to attend her classes.

With the national competition approaching, I couldn't let her miss out because of ignorance.

She eventually won the competition and got a shot at the entertainment industry.

She was on the cusp of realizing her dreams, stepping into the limelight.

Watching her shine among the rising stars, I couldn't have been prouder.

But then, during a live interview, she claimed she wanted to "find herself" and exposed me as manipulative.

She labeled me the most terrifying person she knew.

She accused me of planting a tracker on her phone to monitor her every move.

She claimed I had driven her father away for my own selfish reasons, subjecting her to ridicule.

She insisted that my pushing her into dance was all about fulfilling my own dreams, completely disregarding her true desires.

Her tears won over the crowd, turning many into instant fans.

One of her fanatical fans stabbed me in the chest when I was on my way to work, landing me in the hospital.

Then, she played the part of the bereaved daughter online, soliciting donations, and emotionlessly signed the form to cease my lifesaving treatment.

After my death, she thrived on the donations while reminiscing about my "motherly love", winning over countless hearts.

Those who had been on the fence became her staunch supporters, advocating for her in every way.

An international director, moved by her tear-streaked confession, chose her as the lead for his next movie.

Even her estranged father reappeared, filling the gap left by my absence.

Me?

My end was so swift; there wasn't even a proper funeral. They just cremated me and dumped my ashes down the sewer.

Her fans called me a blot on Caitlyn's life and even petitioned for my attacker's release, claiming it was a public service.

Schools nationwide used me as a warning in parent-teacher meetings, urging parents not to emulate my behavior.

My husband's family preferred sons and tried to stage an "accident" for Caitlyn, unwilling to spend on her anymore.

I had juggled four jobs, pushing myself to the brink, just to pay for her top-notch dance classes.

It was all because she once said, "Mom, I want to dance like you."

I sacrificed my pride to help her chase her dreams, only to be publicly denounced by her.

Last time, I spent every dime on her lessons instead of my treatment.

This time, I'm not losing myself for her.

2

I brushed off the dance teacher's payment request and reassessed our home.

It was a modest three-bedroom flat, yet only two were in use.

I had transformed the largest bedroom into a dance studio for Caitlyn's practice sessions.

The remaining rooms were occupied by my mother-in-law Dorothy and Caitlyn.

My husband, Mark Thompson, claimed to be on constant business trips, but I knew he was shacking up with his mistress just next community.

I only discovered Mark's infidelity when his pregnant mistress came knocking. He had betrayed our marriage long before, turning me into the town's punchline.

I demanded everything in the divorce, insisting Mark walk away empty-handed. But Caitlyn's lies in court cost me my share of the assets.

Caitlyn had the nerve to claim I was the first to stray.

Mark had poisoned her mind, convincing her I had a fling that went sour. Gradually, she believed I was projecting my frustrations onto her.

I held my tongue against her accusations.

I thought she was just naive, too young to see the whole picture. I believed she'd eventually understand my sacrifices.

But in her view, I was the culprit behind our family's downfall.

I knew staying with Mark would ruin her, so I chose to leave with nothing if it meant saving her.

Yet, she saw my actions as driven by jealousy of the affection Mark showed her, thinking I was out to torment them both.

Even a simple takeout meal at Mark's felt more genuine to her than the carefully balanced meals I prepared.

Reflecting on the slander I endured, my life seemed like a cruel joke.

Thankfully, I've been given another chance to do things right.

This time around, I'm reclaiming the dance career I once abandoned.

Instead of making Caitlyn a star, I'll be the one to shine.

I reached out to the top orthopedic specialists, preparing for the surgery on my foot.

Previously, when I rushed home to find Caitlyn unconscious in our apartment filled with gas, it was Dorothy who had "accidentally" forgotten to turn off the stove, hoping to end Caitlyn's life.

Desperate to save her, I ignored my injuries and rushed her to the hospital.

It wasn't until a nurse pointed it out that I realized I had severely sprained my ankle along the way, resulting in a fracture.

At that moment, I had just enough money for one surgery, and I chose Caitlyn's well-being over my own, given her promising future.

That choice meant I'd never walk onto the stage and dance again.

Since she now viewed me as a cripple forcing her into dance, I decided to set her free.

With the surgery scheduled and Caitlyn due back from school, I didn't rush to the café this time. Instead, I entered the dance studio and reminisced about my days on the national stage. Those were glorious days, filled with the joy of performance and longing for those times.

Lost in those memories, Caitlyn arrived home.

The sight of me stepping out of the studio wiped the smile off her face.

Her face hardened, and she looked at me with utter disdain for me and everything dance-related. Suddenly, I remembered her promising to take my place on stage after my operation.

"Why the hell are you eyeballing me like that, cripple? It's freaking weird."

"Did the dance teacher rat me out again? I knew that old witch couldn't mind her own business!"

"Make me go to another dance class, and I'll jump right here and now. See if you want me dancing on a broken leg!"

Her words stung, bringing back all the efforts and sacrifices I had made for her to pursue her dreams.

I had invested heavily in her rehabilitation because dancing demands excellent physical health.

While my husband and mother-in-law refused to invest a dime in Caitlyn, I used their criminal threats to ensure they didn't stand in her way. Meanwhile, I started taking odd jobs to fund her tuition.

Now, she was using threats of self-harm to escape dancing.

Was I wrong to want her to break free from this toxic environment?

Was I wrong to want her to achieve her dreams on the biggest stage and see the world?

But now, I've come to terms with everything.

With the advancements in medical technology, my foot was no longer a major issue. I had a chance to return to the stage.

Watching her threaten me with that fierce look, I calmly responded, "Go ahead, jump. I'll have an ambulance on standby."

3

Her eyes widened at my even tone, and she repeated.

"I'm talking about jumping off a roof, not into dance lessons!"

I barely hid a smirk, weary of her foolishness.

"I heard you. Jump or dance, it's your call now."

"You're hooked on that gaming café, huh? Maybe your dad can hook you up with a PC at home."

"From here on out, do whatever you like. I'm stepping back."

"And about those parent-teacher meetings—you think I embarrass you, right? Let your dad handle them."

"I'm officially out of your business. Got an issue? Go ask your wonderful dad."

Shocked by my words, she asked again in disbelief, "Are you serious?"

I just nodded, confirming I wasn't messing around.

A grin spread across her face, too gleeful, too bright.

She pressed her advantage, seeing how far she could go.

"I'm done with dance classes. That old witch just nags and tattles."

Years of dance, yet she still half-assed basic stretches without a teacher's help, clueless of the effort behind their strictness.

"Sure, as of today, consider yourself unenrolled."

My laid-back response left her incredulous as she probed further, "Tomorrow after school, I'm hitting the gaming café with Jake, might be back late."

I simply nodded, showing it was no issue.

"Fine by me. Maybe your dad can buy you both a computer; bring your boyfriend over, I won't mind."

Encouraged, she threw out a list of usually unreasonable demands, to which I nonchalantly nodded. I heard her, but whether I'd act was another story.

Surprised by her newfound freedom, she cautiously moved towards her room, noticing I didn't scold her to practice like before. Satisfied, she dove into her gaming session.

With no time to fuss over her, I turned my attention to finding a good rehab center; years without dancing had taken their toll.

After setting everything up, I met with a lawyer in a plush restaurant to talk divorce—it had been too long since I'd dined out properly.

Returning home full and with divorce papers in hand, I was greeted by the usual chaos of the living room and Caitlyn's loud complaints about her video game.

"Come on! You moron! Don't you know how to play?!"

My entry startled her, and she snapped in her usual demanding tone, "Get me a glass of water."

I acted as if I hadn't heard, plotting my next steps for recovery.

Gazing at my rehab plan, a newfound resolve sprouted within me. Fetching water was a maid's job, not mine. I'm her mom.

My disregard infuriated her. She slammed her half-eaten chicken on the table and lashed out,

"You cripple! What, you can't hear now either?!"

"I'm talking to you! Are you deaf?!"

I spread my hands wide, showing I was truly done meddling. She still seemed to think these were tasks a mom should take care of.

Tasks a mom should take care of.

Indeed, Caitlyn tends to put on weight easily, even a sip of water seems to do it.

In my previous life, I went all out to keep her diet balanced and her figure slim, scouring every cookbook and even studying nutrition.

Yet, all those efforts were twisted into accusations of abuse by her.

This time, I'm not sweating her diet or leisure. Soon enough, she'll outgrow her dance outfits.

Angered to the point of speechlessness, she stomped over to snatch the rehab plan from my hands.

I wasn't quick enough, and she grabbed it.

"What's this? So fascinating you can't even fetch me water?"

"A surgery plan? Where did a cripple like you get the cash for that?"

"Is it your lover's money? Hand it over! It's my dad's money. You heard me?"