The Day I Chose to Have No Mother

My mother, Carol, always prided herself on being the picture of impartiality. Whatever my older sister, Tiffany, had, I was required to have, toono more, no less. It was her personal mantra, a suffocating, twisted form of equity.

I wasnt planning on going home for the holidays this year; I was in the middle of closing a multi-million-dollar deal. But then the text came.

"Jenna, I bought you a ticket for tonight. Remember to be on time."

"You know how hard it is to get seats for Christmas. I was up for days trying to snag this one for you!"

I was about to text back a polite refusal, but she preempted me, sending the ticket information: an interstate bus ticket, 19 hours and 53 minutes, non-stop.

The accompanying voice memo dripped with martyrdom: "Your sister has a ticket. If you didn't, I'd look like a mother who plays favorites! If you don't come home, you're ungrateful!"

I had no choice but to agree.

The very next second, my sister, Tiffany, posted in the family group chat.

"OMG, look how much Mom adores me! She booked me a first-class flight a whole month ago!"

If this was what Carol Perkins called "fairness," I really didn't want it anymore.

...

The words "a whole month ago" burned a bitter acid behind my eyes.

I must have been frozen in that position for too long, because my colleague, Mark, leaned over, his expression a mixture of pity and disbelief.

"Jenna, a bus ticket? Nineteen hours? That's brutal. And I thought your mom was chartering a car for you?"

I tasted ash. "A chartered car?" I hoped.

Mark's mother was a neighborhood friend of mine, so he was a reliable source of uncomfortable information.

"Yeah, my mom was telling me all about it. Carol was worried you were overworked and was going to hire an executive car service to drive you cross-state. She went on and on about how much she cared. She really dotes on you!"

The blood ran cold in my veins. I immediately checked the family chat again.

Tiffanys message about the first-class flight had been swiftly deleted. The screen was now filled with Moms generic, shareable poststhe kind that looked like a bad life-coachs feed:

"The most important thing about filial piety isn't obedience, it's making peace!"

"Only a perfectly balanced scale makes for a harmonious family!"

My aunts and uncles chimed in, seeking advice:

"Carol, you're a saint. Two daughters, no favoritism!"

"It must be why both your girls are so successful!"

My throat tightened. Shaking, I typed a message: "Mom, I heard you were going to charter a car to pick me up?"

The group chat instantly went silent.

Before Carol could reply, Tiffany launched her attack:

"Jenna Perkins, how can you be so entitled? You've been working for years! Mom was nice enough to even book you a ticket at all!"

"A chartered car? Seriously? Who do you think you are?"

My question was instantly deflected.

The group erupted with praise for Tiffany's "maturity," throwing thinly veiled insults my way.

"Well, I'd say a little favoritism is natural. You cant expect five fingers to be the same length."

"Tiff is so thoughtful. If she were my daughter, Id favor her too."

"Honestly, Tiffany has been the one suffering all these years."

My fists were clenched so tight my nails dug crescents into my palms. I was shaking, unable to defend myself. Should I post the picture of my standing-room-only bus ticket? But Tiffany had already painted me as the spoiled one demanding luxury. And her flight message? Only I had seen it before she deleted it.

Just then, my mother's chat box popped up.

A $50 Venmo transfer appeared with the caption:

"Did my little girl get her feelings hurt? Here's a little something, sweetie. Don't worry about your sister."

"I did want to charter a car, but it was too last-minute. You know how busy I am."

I bit the inside of my cheek until I tasted blood. The unaccepted $50 mocked my fleeting, self-pitying moment of hope.

I finally found the courage to send the question I needed answered:

"Why did you book a first-class flight for Tiffany?"

It was a long time before Carol replied:

"Don't be ridiculous, Jenna. I would never be so unfair. You two are treated exactly the same."

"A bus ticket, a plane ticket... tickets are hard to get at Christmas. You need to be understanding."

I slumped in my office chair, defeated.

Her texts continued:

"Oh, and your sister gets carsick easily on buses. Remember to pick her up some motion sickness meds. And she loves those expensive cherries; they help her nausea."

"Since I sent you the $50, that makes it fair."

Mark's phone nudged my elbow. He pointed to a new text from his mother:

"My mom just sent me this. Carol couldn't figure out the app, so she had my little brother help her book it."

I read every word. The messages detailed Carol's sincere concern for her daughter's well-being: Driver, my daughter gets nauseous, please drive smoothly. Shes a quiet girl, please dont try to make conversation. Ill be waiting downstairs an hour early, please be punctual.

The newest chat log, dated a month ago:

"Driver, we won't be needing the car. My daughter decided to fly home instead."

The name on the booking? Tiffany Perkins. Never Jenna. I fought back the tears, refusing to let them fall.

It had always been like this.

Bread had to be measured with a ruler and sliced in half. Milk had to be dated and checked for evenness. Our bedding, our backpacks, our clothingall the same color and style.

As a child, I, like everyone else, believed my mother was the epitome of fairness.

As an adult, I knew the truth.

I hated cream-filled bread and loathed milk, but Tiffany loved them. I didn't want a pink backpack or frilly dresses, but Tiffany did. I wanted to attend a university three states away, but Mom insisted I stay here, with Tiffany.

The sight of my manager, Sarah, coming toward me snapped me out of my haze.

"Jenna, are you coming home for the holidays?"

I instantly replied, "No, Sarah, I'm staying. Im going to power through the Ramsey account."

Just then, the family group chat exploded with photos.

My aunts were showing off their Christmas gifts:

"Thank you, Tiffany, for the amazing holiday gifts!"

The photos showed boxes of gourmet fruit baskets, high-end artisanal beer, and imported seafood.

"Thank you, Jenna."

In that second photo, casually tossed into the corner, was a single, generic case of store-brand juice boxes.

My eyes blurred with tears of shock.

Because I had bought all of it. The gourmet baskets, the beer, the seafood, even the cheap juice boxesthey were all from my account, my card. Tiffany hadn't contributed a thing!

Rage seized my brain. I didn't care about their twisted game anymore. I typed a furious retort:

"These were all bought with my money. How did they become Tiffanys gifts?"

The moment I sent it, my Aunt Brenda jumped in: "Jenna, you really are just like your mother said you were!"

It was as if she'd been waiting for me to take the bait. A cold dread washed over me.

Next, Aunt Margaret scolded me:

"Last year, you claimed you bought us that expensive necklace, too! I praised you for months, only for your mother to tell us afterward that Tiffany had paid for it all!"

Her voice memo dripped with scorn. "This year, the boxes clearly have Tiffany's name on the shipping labels. And now you're trying to take credit for them again? Get real!"

I couldn't breathe. My body was shaking uncontrollably. I didn't care about face or courtesy anymore. I had spent the money, and I deserved the credit.

But the message I tried to send next bounced back with an unmistakable exclamation mark.

"You are no longer a member of this group. Please submit a request to rejoin."

I stared at the group admin's profile picture.

My mother.

A moment later, Carol texted me privately, her tone sickeningly gentle:

"Jenna, are you mad at Mommy? Let me explain. Im doing this to maintain fairness!"

I laughed, a sharp, humorless sound. What kind of fairness was this?

"You two are sisters. You work in a big-city firm; your sister is barely making minimum wage. Everyone praises you. Who praises Tiffany?"

"So, I decided to let her take credit for the holiday gifts. That way, things are fair, aren't they?"

Her tone subtly shifted to one of slight annoyance:

"Look at you, airing our private business in the chat. Do you want to embarrass me or your sister?"

"Forget it. When you get here, take Tiffany to the mall and buy her a nice gold bracelet. Itll be your compensation to her."

I couldn't speak. Tears streamed down my face.

She was calling me unfair, and demanding I compensate the one who was robbing me?

As I reached for my keyboard to unleash hell, Mr. Evans, my division manager, stormed over.

"Jenna, with me. Now!"

My heart sank, a sickening feeling washing over me.

"Do you know your mother just called to quit for you? Are you serious? What are you, a child playing adult? Get out of my office!"

My head felt like it had been hit by a bomb. I scrambled for my phone. The last message from my mother was waiting:

"Your sister was just fired. Since that's the case, I've quit your job for you. To make things fair!"

I took a deep breath, bowed to my manager, and offered my sincerest apologies.

After a brutal dressing down, Mr. Evans delivered the final order:

"Don't come back until your family drama is completely sorted out!"

My humiliation was a suffocating weight. I walked out of the building, my anger finally reaching a boiling point. I called her.

"Tiffany is a waitress who takes advantage of your monthly allowance! She works two days and skips three! Of course, she was fired!"

"When I was doing that crushing internship, making minimum wage, barely able to afford rent, did you ever give me a penny? Never!"

"Is that fair? Is that what you call fair?"

"I'm not coming home for Christmas. Im not coming home ever again. As far as I'm concerned, you only have one daughter: Tiffany!"

I hung up without waiting for her reply.

Within half an hour, my phone was besieged by calls from relatives. I ignored them all, letting them pile up as texts and voice memos.

Aunt Brenda and Aunt Margaret were the first:

"Jenna Perkins, you have some nerve! How can you talk to your mother like that? You're an ingrate! The city turned you into a monster!"

"Do you know how much your mother is crying? Get home and apologize right now!"

Accompanying the texts were photos of my mother, Carol, looking pale, collapsed on the sofa, sobbing hysterically. The sight made me feel numb, yet a fresh wave of white-hot anger surged inside me.

Aunt Brendas voice memo included my mother's choked-up whisper: "Jenna, Mommy knows. If you want the gifts to be yours, they are, okay? Theyre yours."

They were already mine. My hand dropped uselessly to my side, my body trembling.

Just before my screen locked, a message came through from Tiffany:

"Jenna, you treat Mom like this, you'll get what's coming to you."

I blocked them all. I wiped my tears.

A sudden, intense sense of self-preservation guided me to my apartment's spare room.

I needed something to guarantee my safety.

The next morning, I texted Mr. Evans that the situation was handled and reported to work on time.

The minute I walked in, I noticed the disgusted glances from my coworkers.

"That's her, the one who abandoned her mother," I heard. "Her poor mother worked so hard to raise them both, and that's how she repays her?"

"I saw the video. She's a monster."

"How can someone like that work for us? It's a disgrace!"

My hands shook as I checked my phone. Top of the local news feed: "Ungrateful Daughter Disowns Mother Over Budget Flight Ticket?"

The video showed my mother weeping dramatically, surrounded by relatives who took turns recounting Carol's "fairness" over the years. They claimed she stayed up for nights trying to buy me a plane ticket, and out of desperation to see me, she bought the bus ticket. Now, I had cut her off.

My head swam with fury. I wanted to scream the truth.

But Mr. Evans appeared, his face thunderous. "Jenna Perkins, before you say a word, look outside."

I stumbled down the stairs.

Outside, a crowd was gathered, holding banners that blocked the company entrance:

"Boycott Ungrateful Daughter Jenna Perkins! Support the Fair Mom!"

"Find Jenna PerkinsShe Needs to Learn a Lesson!"

I flinched. Taking a deep breath, I was about to rush out and tell the truth when someone pointed at me.

"There she is! That's Jenna Perkins!"

The crowd surged. In the second I froze, a stinging blow landed across my face.

"You dare treat our mother like that? Ill teach you respect!"

It was Tiffany. Her face was contorted with fury, but her eyes held a spark of undisguised triumph.

I reeled, my vision blurring. I couldn't speak.

The surrounding crowd saw my silence as guilt and began to jeer. Then came the projectilesrotten eggs and old lettuce leavespelting me.

"Thats Jenna! Folks, hit the like button! Watch me punish this monster for all of you!"

Tiffany held up her phone. She was live-streaming the attack.

In the corner of the video feed, my mother was visible on a couch, looking weak, her voice a desperate plea: "Jenna, Mommy knows you were just upset. It's okay. Just come home today, and you'll still be my good daughter."

Her words sliced through the last thread of my attachment to her.

I started to laugh, a wretched, cynical sound. "Mom," I choked out, "one last time. Is the truth what the internet is saying?"

My mothers eyes went instantly red, but she didn't speak.

The crowds anger intensified.

"She has no remorse! She wants to drive her own mother to her grave!"

"How can a big company like this hire someone with zero morals? Fire her!"

I watched the live stream and saw ita fleeting, almost imperceptible smirk play across my mothers lips as the comments rolled in.

Just then, Mr. Evans and Mr. Harrison walked out, their faces grim.

"Following an internal investigation," Mr. Evans announced loudly, "Jenna Perkins was found to have engaged in fraudulent expense reporting. We have terminated her employment."

"And we will be pursuing criminal charges."

The termination notice was slapped against my face, the paper leaving a thin cut on my cheek.

"Expect a subpoena from the court."

I froze, a thought clicking into place. Because she lived nearby, Tiffany constantly dropped by my apartment, always trying to sneak into my home office. My expense reports were filed and organized there.

I looked up, meeting Tiffany's smug, triumphant gaze. Then I looked at the phone video. My mother lowered her head, avoiding the camera's focus.

She was in on it.

I smiled, a cold, empty feeling in my chest.

"Well," Tiffany crowed, "now youve lost your job and youre going to jail. Why don't you apologize to Mom? We might still give you a handout!"

"You're supposed to be so smart! Write her a letter of apology right now. Kneel and beg for forgiveness!"

I reached into my bag and pulled out a sheet of paper. My voice was steady, betraying no hint of fear or defeat.

"I do have something to give Ms. Perkins."

"But it's not an apology."

Someone held a camera up to the paper in my hand. Gasps erupted from the crowd.

"What is that?"

My mother, unable to see the paper, felt a surge of panic. She instantly perked up.

"Jenna, what are you doing? Mother and daughter have no grudges! Even without an apology, Mommy won't blame you!"

She tried to start crying again. Tiffany sobbed: "Jenna, Mom sacrificed everything for us! And you won't even apologize! You're waving some stupid piece of paper around just to upset her!"

But they were too late. The surrounding crowd was looking at the paper, their jaws dropping. No one was rushing to their defense.

Someone finally broke the silence with a shocked exclamation:

"Are you kidding me? This woman calls herself a 'Fair Mom?' This is disgusting! Look at this list!"