The Money for My Daughter

This month's paycheck sits in my hand. Three thousand – a measly number that has to support both my daughter and me. My daughter, Shirley Scott, gets home from school and throws her bag on the sofa. The first thing she says is: "Mom, I need two thousand seven for living expenses next month." I nearly dropped the bowl I was holding. The water splashed onto my apron, like the frantic pounding of my heart. "Shirley," I swallowed hard, my voice tight. "I only make three thousand a month, and I'm giving you two thousand seven. How am I supposed to survive?" Shirley Scott snapped her head up, her eyes wide and glaring. Her eyes held no pity, only impatience: "You can live on white rice porridge and pickled vegetables, right?" I was floored. Her words were like a needle, stabbing my throat and making it throb. "You forgot when you were in junior high and had a fever of 39 degrees?" I couldn't help but bring up the past. "I carried you to the hospital. I couldn't even bear to spend money on a taxi, and walked all the way there, wearing out my shoes." She rolled her eyes and cut me off. "That was ages ago! Why are you bringing that up now!" She leaned in, raising her voice. "My classmates get *at least* 5000 for living expenses! Some of them can even buy new phones." Standing there with her hands on her hips, she looked just like her father, David Scott, who we haven't been in contact with in forever. I remember her when she was little. The way she used to hug my neck and say, "Mom, I'll take care of you when I grow up," is still flashing before my eyes. "Shirley, have you forgotten you wanted to learn piano in high school?" I tried to reason with her, "Back then, each lesson was two hundred. You said you wanted to apply to art school, so I borrowed five thousand from your aunt. I still have to pay back two hundred every month." She curled her lip, completely unconcerned: "That's what you wanted to do! Why did you to fight for custody in the first place?" "If I was with my dad, would I have to squeeze into this tiny apartment with you, unable to even afford a new piece of clothing?" My heart just sank. She's always going on about her dad, but she forgets David Scott's a gambling maniac. He gambled away all our savings back then and even got us into debt with loan sharks. If I hadn't grabbed her and run in the middle of the night, those collectors would've been knocking down our door years ago. "Your dad's no good," I said, grabbing her hand, my voice all worked up. "He's just gonna con you out of your money. You can't go to him!" She yanked her hand away, wiping it on her clothes like I was dirt. "Don't touch me! My dad told me he's gonna buy me the newest Tablet in a few days!" "I contacted him a long time ago. He said he's started a small company and has plenty of money!" So she'd been contacting David Scott all along, and actually bought his bullcrap. I didn't sleep that night. The living room light stayed on all night. I stared at the ceiling, tossing and turning, unable to figure it out—where did I go wrong, raising a daughter like that? The next morning, Shirley Scott came back to demand money. She blocked the kitchen doorway, not letting me cook: "Are you going to give it to me or not? If you don't, I'm going to my dad and let him see how you're abusing me, and I'll get the netizens to curse you!" I caved. I'm scared she'll actually go running to David Scott, scared she'll fall into some kind of hellhole, and even more scared she'll start blabbing online and ruin the stable life I've finally managed to build. I called the boss, my voice all pleading: "Mr. Warren, is there any way I could get a half-month advance on my paycheck? My daughter needs living expenses for school, I'm flat broke." The other end of the phone was quiet for a minute, then Mr. Warren sighed: "Linda. An advance is doable, but you'll lose your performance bonus for the month. You sure about that?" I gritted my teeth: "I'm sure, thanks Mr. Warren." After hanging up, I took the fifteen hundred I'd gotten as an advance, added it to the twelve hundred I'd saved, scraped together twenty-seven hundred, and handed it to Shirley Scott. She snatched it, shoved it in her bag, didn't even say thank you. Turned around and went back to her room to pack, said she was going to school early to hang out with her classmates. I wanted to drive her, and see her dorm while I was there. But she waved me off, sounding disgusted: "No, don't bother. If you go to school dressed like that, people will think you're my grandma. How embarrassing." The door slammed shut, "bang," cutting off my words and killing off the last bit of warmth I had left. Clutching the last three hundred in my hand. I did the math; this month I can only afford ten grams of rice and some pickled vegetables. If I stretch it, I should be able to barely scrape by. No more than three days later, Shirley Scott's cousin, Mike, called me. He stammered, beating around the bush for ages: "Shirley told me you only give her 800 for living expenses each month. Isn't that a bit tight?"