Chapter 2: The Price of Freedom

I stood in the living room, the back of my head still throbbing from the fall, my ears ringing with Lily’s shrill cries.

Sunlight slanted across the hardwood, catching the faded edges of our old couch and the family photos on the mantle—all those memories suddenly brittle and distant. Lily’s voice ricocheted off the walls, raw and unfiltered, just like when she threw tantrums over Happy Meals as a kid.

“There’s an SAT every year, but after Jason’s comeback, there’s only this one concert.”

She stomped, sneakers squeaking. I recognized the edge in her voice—the one she used when she thought the world owed her a miracle.

My daughter tossed her admission ticket onto the coffee table, her eyes blazing.

The ticket landed beside a chipped mug and a stack of overdue bills. Her hands trembled with fury, her gaze darting between me and the door as if the house itself was holding her hostage.

“He even cried at the fan meet yesterday. The label worked him to the bone until his depression came back. He stayed up late practicing dance until his knees were shot.”

She rattled off the details like she knew Jason personally, her empathy for him pouring out in waves. For a moment, I almost pitied the boy on the poster—the pressure, the faceless crowd, the need to be perfect.

“If it weren’t for me, he wouldn’t be able to survive! Mom, do you know how hard it is for him!”

Her eyes shone, earnest and wounded, as if she alone carried the fate of this pop idol. For all her drama, I knew Lily cared deeply; she just never seemed to save any for herself—or for me.

I looked at her flushed face, and the memory of her pushing me off the balcony—her face twisted with rage—flashed before my eyes.

For a split second, my heart hammered in my chest, a ghostly echo of pain and fear. I remembered the moonlit night, the creak of the deck, her hands shoving, and the silent shock of falling. The wind knocked the scream out of me. All I could hear was my own heartbeat, roaring in my ears as the world spun.

My body still trembled, but my heart was already cold.

The warmth I’d once felt for her seemed distant, buried under years of thankless sacrifices and silent tears. I drew a slow breath, counting the seconds, determined not to let her see my weakness this time.

I raised my head and gave her a dazzling smile. “Alright, you can go.”

My voice rang out bright and confident, like a game show host offering a grand prize. I held her gaze, daring her to challenge me, just to see what she’d do when she finally got her wish.

She clearly didn’t expect me to agree so easily. She narrowed her eyes. “You... you’re really letting me go? You’re not going to stop me?”

The disbelief in her voice was almost comical. She clutched her phone to her chest, scanning my face for any sign of a trap. For the first time in years, I felt the tables turn just a little.

“Why would I stop you?” I spread my hands, keeping my tone light. “How could the SATs be more important than your idol? You’ll be eighteen next month. You can make your own decisions. Hey, if chasing your idol is your dream, go for it. I hope you both get what you want.”

A smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth, the thrill of freedom lighting up her face. She tossed her hair, confidence ballooning as she pulled up a calculator app, fingers flying.

A flash of pride crossed her face, and she immediately reached out her hand. “Boarding fees, travel, concert tickets—a total of $1,200. Hurry up, I have to catch the last bus.”

She looked at me like it was a done deal, as if parents were just living ATMs. I fought the urge to laugh at her audacity, recalling all the times I’d bailed her out, sometimes skipping lunch so she could have everything she wanted.

I sat down slowly, picked up my mug, and took a sip of coffee. “No money. You know my paycheck only goes so far. I’m saving up to sign up for a pottery class.”

I blew gently on my coffee, savoring the bitterness, feeling a quiet thrill at finally putting myself first. I let my shoulders relax, sinking back into the cushions as if I had all the time in the world. I even glanced at the community center’s pottery workshop flyer on the fridge—my small rebellion against years of self-denial.

Her eyes widened. “Are you crazy? Pottery? What does a middle-aged woman like you need to learn pottery for?”

She stared at me like I’d grown a second head, her lip curling in disbelief. For a second, I saw the little girl who once begged me to paint with her in the driveway.

“Can’t a middle-aged woman have hobbies?” I tilted my head. “Didn’t you always say people should live for themselves? I’m learning from you—choosing my own path.”

I shot her a knowing smile, letting my words linger. In the back of my mind, I pictured myself in a sunlit studio, hands deep in clay, the radio humming oldies, finally finding a rhythm that belonged to me.

She shook with anger, pointing at me and yelling, “How can you be so selfish! If you spend all the money, how will I afford to retake the SATs?”

She stomped her foot again, sounding more like a toddler than a soon-to-be adult. I watched her, half amused, half exhausted, wondering when she’d ever see me as more than just a means to an end.

I snorted. She still wanted to retake the test?

I remembered every time she’d threatened to give up, only to double back when reality set in. The pattern was as predictable as clockwork, and I wondered how many other parents had walked this tightrope between support and self-preservation.

In her mind, chasing idols was all that mattered. Everything else had to step aside.

Her room was filled with posters, shelves lined with plastic lightsticks and photo cards, her grades always a distant second to whatever new obsession came along. In her universe, pop culture reigned supreme, and academics were just background noise.

In my previous life, she believed that as her mother, I should give everything selflessly to support her.

There was a running joke in our PTA about how parents were just service staff for their kids’ ambitions. I never laughed at it, because deep down, it hurt to realize how true it had become in my house.

She complained to others more than once, saying I had no life of my own, that I was just an empty shell, and that it was my fault her dad left me.

Those words echoed through parent-teacher meetings, whispered behind my back at the grocery store, a stain that wouldn’t wash out. My pride shrank each time, but I wore my resilience like armor, pretending her accusations bounced off me.

She knew very well her father cheated first, but her lies made everyone believe I was a bitter woman who tried to control her daughter to fill the void.

I’d see the pitying looks, the sideways glances, and I bit my tongue every time. Let them think what they want, I thought. The truth had a way of surfacing, sooner or later.

And she, chasing her idol, was living her best life.

She posted about it constantly—group photos at the mall, hashtagged stories from concerts, the world convinced she was a free spirit on the rise. I watched it unfold, equal parts envious and heartbroken.

I lazily leaned back on the sofa. “Didn’t you say you weren’t taking the SATs? Why talk about retaking them? Go live your life. I won’t stop you anymore. I’ve done my job as a mom.”

I took another sip of coffee, letting the silence stretch between us. It felt good, almost indulgent, to finally step back and let her face her own choices.

Her expression was priceless—shock, then anger, then disbelief.

Her lips parted, then pressed together, her jaw working as if chewing on words she couldn’t swallow. The transformation was almost cinematic.

I shrugged. “You can also ask your dad.”

I tossed out the line as casually as flipping a pancake, but inside, I braced myself for the familiar refrain. The way she always defaulted to him for rescue, even though he’d let her down every time.

She froze.

For a moment, her bravado crumbled, and she looked younger, smaller, the mask slipping as reality set in.

Her father only cared about his new wife and son now. Even child support was always late after the remarriage.

The checks came sporadically—sometimes a week late, sometimes not at all. I’d learned to keep a spreadsheet, tracking the IOUs alongside the growing list of excuses.

“You’re doing this on purpose!” she gritted her teeth. “You just want to force me to take the SATs!”

She spat out the accusation like it was poison, her anger barely contained. I caught the faint tremor in her hands, the look of desperation in her eyes.

I laughed. This time, I really laughed out loud.

It felt like a weight had lifted off my chest, the sound bubbling up from somewhere deep and long-forgotten. I let myself enjoy it, just for a second.

“No, I really support you chasing your idol.” I stood up and patted her shoulder. “Go ahead. Don’t leave yourself with any regrets.”

I met her gaze, steady and unwavering, my touch gentle but resolute. For once, I felt like the adult in the room, and I wasn’t afraid to show it.

My daughter’s face turned pale, then red. In the end, she slammed the door hard and rushed out.

The whole house rattled, picture frames tilting, the air thick with the smell of her floral body spray. I listened to her footsteps pounding down the hallway, and for the first time in years, I didn’t run after her.