Raised By Her Favorite App

From the moment I was born, my mother decided to outsource my entire childhood to an AI parenting coach.

When I was a baby, the AI claimed that rice water could easily replace baby formula, and that vaccines were just a scam. So, I never tasted real milk, growing up fragile, sickly, and constantly on the edge of collapse.

By the time I reached high school, the AI calculated that my monthly allowance should be exactly ten dollars. To get a single slice of cafeteria pizza, I once had to drop to my knees and beg the lunch lady.

Then came the afternoon before the final SAT exam. My classmate Hailey, who had already secured her spot at an overseas university, pulled out her phone and asked her AI assistant a question.

"Hey AI, is it too late to start studying for the SATs the day before the test?"

A second later, a flat, mechanical voice leaked from the speaker:

"Direct conclusion: Not too late at all. A last-minute cram session is the perfect way to trigger peak performance. Just follow these steps..."

Hailey burst into laughter, calling the app a piece of garbage, but I sat there feeling like Id been dropped into a freezing lake.

The AI lied. It was capable of lying.

When I got home and saw my mother on the sofa, her face glowing with a soft, maternal warmth as she double-tapped a video of an AI-generated kitten cooking dinner, something inside me finally snapped.

Once the college application cycle ended, I chose a school as far away from home as humanly possible, cutting all ties with her.

Years later, she would crawl to me, clutching my knees, sobbing in agony, begging me to take her to the hospital.

I only smiled and shook my head.

"I can't do that, Mom. The AI said you can cure this right at home."

"Alright, everyone, take a deep breath. Don't stress too much about tomorrow. Just give it your best shot."

At the front of the classroom, Mrs. Higgins let her usual stern expression melt into a warm, encouraging smile.

The moment she stepped out, the classroom erupted into chaos.

"Oh my god, I haven't even finished reading the Gatsby prompts! What if that's the main essay topic?"

"I still don't understand this calculus theorem. Can someone walk me through it?"

I reached into my bag and pulled out my practice math sheets, staring at the red corrections I still needed to review. But the words swam before my eyes. I couldn't focus on a single letter.

The big test was tomorrow. Even though I worked ten times harder than anyone else, how much energy does a teenager have when they are perpetually starving?

"Why are you guys freaking out? There's always a last-minute trick," Hailey said, looking around the room and waving her hand dismissively.

Everyone stopped what they were doing, immediately drawn to her. "What trick? You can't cram a high school education into twenty-four hours."

I lowered my paper, my eyes locked on her.

"Let's ask the expert," Hailey said. "Hey AI, is it too late to study for the SATs the night before?"

A few seconds of silence, then the robotic female voice answered:

"Of course not! In fact, you have plenty of time. If you follow my personalized schedule, you will easily achieve a top-tier score."

The crowd of classmates let out a collective groan of disbelief. "No way. That thing is totally making stuff up. Ask it something dumber."

"Hey AI," Hailey grinned, "can I start studying after the exam is already over?"

"To give you the most direct, straightforward answer: absolutely. In fact, studying after the test is the golden window for deep memory retention."

The classroom erupted into hysterics. Hailey laughed so hard tears welled in her eyes, waving the phone around.

"See? This thing is programmed to be a people-pleaser. If you yell at it, it just starts apologizing."

The tension in the room dissipated, replaced by lighthearted mockery. Everyone was laughing, but my face felt completely frozen, my throat tight.

So AI wasn't a perfect, infallible science.

All my life, my mother had treated AI as the ultimate truth. Every single decision of my upbringing had been dictated by an algorithm.

When I was sick, we didn't go to the doctor; she asked the AI. When I started boarding school, she asked the AI how much money a teenager needed to survive. I wasn't a daughter. I was a program she was running.

I took a slow, trembling breath, trying to swallow the hot wave of anger and tears pushing up my throat. My pencil dug so hard into the practice sheet that the lead snapped, tearing a jagged hole through the paper and the wooden desk underneath.

Hailey noticed my expression and leaned in, her voice dropping. "Hey, Paula? You okay? Don't worry so much. Your practice scores were amazing. You're going to kill it tomorrow."

I turned to her, forcing my lips to curve upward into a stiff, artificial smile. "That app... can you show me how it works?"

Though Hailey was confused as to why the class nerd was suddenly interested in a basic AI app, she spent the rest of study hall walking me through it.

By the time the bell rang, I had my things packed. I walked home in a daze.

My mother was sprawled on the living room sofa, her face bathed in the blue light of her phone screen.

She didn't look up when I walked in. She just tilted the screen slightly away from me and said, "Go wash the dishes. And the laundry in the hamper needs to be hand-washed."

I stood in the doorway, staring at her.

Her eyes remained glued to the glass. On the screen, a hyper-realistic, AI-generated kitten was wearing an apron, sweeping a miniature kitchen. Her face held a soft, adoring expressiona look she had never once directed at me.

I took a step toward my bedroom. "My final exams start tomorrow, Mom. Do them yourself."

My heart hammered against my ribs, loud and frantic. It was the very first time in my life I had ever talked back to her.

My mother finally put the phone down, her brow furrowing. "So what if you have exams tomorrow? Look at this kitten. It's barely a few months old and it already knows how to clean up after itself."

For as long as I could remember, my mother had used these videos as a benchmark.

When I was seven, she showed me a video of a toddler who supposedly stood up from his crib, walked into a kitchen, and began dicing vegetables with a massive chef's knife before whipping up a three-course meal.

"See how independent this little boy is?" she had said. "You're older than him. You should be doing this."

From then on, I was forced to stand on a plastic stool just to reach the stovetop. I couldn't hold the heavy knives properly, slicing my fingers raw more times than I could count. The cast-iron skillet was too heavy for my small wrists, and the hot grease would splatter across my arms, leaving permanent, faint white scars that still mapped my skin.

Whenever I cried, my mother would look at the screen, then look at me with disgust.

"Even a puppy can learn to cook in these videos, Paula. You can't even handle a simple meal. What's the point of having you?"

Back then, I didn't know any better. I thought the videos were real. I accepted her words, turning the blame inward, hating myself for being so useless.

But now I knew. Seeing wasn't believing. The AI was just a mirror of whatever lie people wanted to feed it.

I walked over and snatched the phone right out of her hand.

"Hey AI," I spoke into the receiver, deliberately hard-coding a sharp, stressed edge into my voice. "I have my final SAT exam tomorrow. Should I be doing heavy chores tonight?"

The algorithm picked up on my tone instantly.

"Direct conclusion: Absolutely not. Prioritize rest before a major exam to ensure peak mental clarity."

I slid the phone back onto the coffee table. "You heard it. The AI says I shouldn't do chores. You wouldn't want to go against the AI, would you?"

For the first time in years, my mother's eyes actually focused on me. She was stunned. She hadn't expected me to fight backlet alone use her beloved oracle to do it.

She wanted to argue, but her brain, thoroughly rotted by years of algorithmic dependency, couldn't find a loophole.

After a long, tense silence, she grabbed her phone back. "Fine. Go study. You can do the dishes after the exams are over."

I retreated to my room and sat on the edge of my bed. It took nearly ten minutes for my chest to stop heaving and my pulse to slow down.

Hailey's advice worked. She had told me that AI is designed to read the room. If you guide its inputs with the right emotional weight, you can manipulate its output.

It was true.

A wave of cold, sharp triumph washed over me. I pressed my face into my desk, a low, quiet laugh bubbling up from my throat.

It wasn't too late. I was waking up, and the game was just beginning.

The next morning, I woke up early and made myself a real breakfast.

Once you realize the monster looming over you is nothing but a paper tiger, the weight of the world lifts. The three days of testing flew by in a blur.

Outside the test center, Mrs. Higgins stood by the gate, looking relieved. "Great job, everyone. Now comes the real workfinalizing your college applications. Where are we all aiming?"

The crowd of seniors started shouting out their dreamssome wanted to stay local, others wanted to head out of state.

I stood at the back of the crowd, keeping my plans quiet.

As soon as I got home, I estimated my scores based on the leaked answer keys online. When the official results finally came out, my scores were exactly what I had predictedsolid, but not elite.

I was sitting at the family computer, ready to finalize my application list. Then the front door clicked open.

My mother walked in, her face flushed with a bizarre, triumphant glow.

"I just ran your profile through the AI counselor," she announced. "It says with your score, you should only apply to Stanford, Columbia, and MIT."

The warmth drained from my face.

My SAT scores weren't even close to the Ivy League threshold. I was a solid candidate for a good state university, but the schools she named were statistical impossibilities for me.

When I didn't move, she walked over and tried to grab the mouse.

I snatched it back, shielding the screen. "No, Mom. Those schools require perfect scores and pristine resumes. I don't have either. If I only apply to them, I'll get rejected everywhere."

She shoved her phone screen in front of my face. "You will get in! The AI says if you submit the application, you have a one hundred percent guarantee of admission."

I pushed her phone away. "That's impossible! Only two kids from our entire district got into the Ivies last year, and they had perfect profiles. I'm not applying."

My mother's voice rose to a shriek. "Why won't you just try? I am doing this for your own good!"

For my own good.

The phrase made my stomach turn. Nothing in my life had ever been for my own good. This college list was my only ticket out of this house.

"I don't care," I said, my voice cold. "I've already decided. I'm applying to Southern Tech."

My mother's eyes went wide. Her hand hovered in the air for a fraction of a second before it came down hard across my cheek.

The slap echoed in the small room.

"Southern Tech? You want to go to some mediocre state school? I raised you on an AI track to be elite!"

I held my stinging cheek, staring her down without blinking. "It's a great school, and it's realistic. If I waste my applications on schools I can't get into, I'll end up with nothing."

"Liar! The AI wouldn't lie to me! You are going to put Stanford down, or so help me, you'll regret it after everything I've sacrificed to raise you!"

A sharp, ugly laugh escaped my throat. "Sacrificed? You mean the ten dollars a month that left me so starving I had to beg the cafeteria ladies for their leftover scraps? That sacrifice?"

My mother slammed her hand on the desk, her face shifting from pale white to a deep, angry crimson. "The AI said ten dollars was scientifically sufficient for a high schooler's nutritional needs! Did I give birth to you just so you could spit in my face?"

AI. Always the goddamn AI. I was sick of hearing the word. But it didn't matter. Once I got down south, I was going to erase this hollow excuse of a family from my life forever.

"What the hell is going on in here? I could hear you screaming from the driveway."

My father pushed the door open, his face twisted in his usual mask of irritation.

My mother immediately turned on him, playing the victim. "Look at your ungrateful daughter! I told her to apply to the top schools, and she's talking back to me!"

My father glared at me. "Can't you just listen to your mother for once?"

"My scores are too low for those schools," I said, my voice tight. "If I do what she says, I won't go to college at all."

"Won't go to college?" My father shrugged, entirely indifferent. "Fine by me. You can get a job at the warehouse and start paying us back for your expenses. God knows we've spent enough on you."

He stood there, completely serious. For eighteen years, this man had contributed nothing to my life but cheap shots and neglect. I should have known better than to expect him to have my back.

My mother smirked, feeling the wind in her sails. "If you listen to me and apply where I tell you, I'll give you a three-hundred-dollar monthly allowance at college. That's more than enough for you to have a good time."

Three hundred dollars. She spoke as if it were a fortune. But I had already stopped counting on them for financial help. If I went to college, I was going to have to fund it myself.

My father took a step closer, his eyes narrowing with a quiet threat. "Are you going to submit the applications, or do I need to log into the portal and do it for you?"

It was two against one. I knew I couldn't win this fight by force. But the submission deadline was still a few days away. I needed to play along to get them off my back.

"Fine," I muttered, looking down. "I'll do it."

My mother smiled, a smug, victorious look stretching across her face. "Good girl. Do it now. I'm watching."

Under her watchful eye, I filled out the applications for Stanford and Columbia. She didn't care about the high risk of rejection; she only cared about the validation of seeing those names on the screen.

"Now give me your login credentials," she demanded. "I'll be checking the portal every day to make sure you don't sneak in and change them."

My heart sank as I handed over the password.

Over the next few days, she logged into the Common App portal constantly. I was busy working shifts at a local diner, trying to scrape together cash, so I couldn't find a window to change the submissions.

With my first paycheck, I went straight to a pawn shop and bought a cheap, used smartphone.

Because of my mother's strict AI parenting, I had never been allowed to own a phone, which meant I had never realized how easily the technology could be bent. But now I had my own device. I had access.

I sat on a park bench, uploaded a couple of photos from my father's public Facebook page, and typed a few specific prompts into a deepfake generator. Within minutes, a video was rendered.

Staring at the screen, I let out the first genuine smile I had worn in years.

That evening, Mrs. Higgins called my mother. She knew about my home situation and had always kept a quiet eye on me.

"Mrs. Zhou, I was reviewing Paula's final college list. We need to talk. Putting only Ivy League schools on her list is incredibly risky. You can't trust those generic AI algorithms."

Hearing her precious AI insulted, my mother immediately bristled.

"What do you know? AI is the future. Teachers like you are going to be replaced by machines in five years anyway."

"The AI proved Paula is Ivy League material. Don't try to hold my daughter back."

Mrs. Higgins, knowing my actual scores, sounded like she was on the verge of tears. "She doesn't have the profile! If she doesn't put any safety schools, she will get rejected everywhere. She won't have a single college option!"

My mother scoffed. "I know what you're doing. Paula put you up to this, didn't she? If you call this house again, I will report you to the school board tomorrow morning!"

She slammed the phone down and marched into the study to check the portal. When she saw the Ivy League applications were still there, she let out a long breath.

"Tomorrow is the final submission deadline," she warned, glare-locking onto me. "I'll be monitoring the screen. Don't try anything stupid."

I gave her a meek, obedient nod. "I won't, Mom. Don't worry."

The next afternoon, my mother sat in front of the computer like a gargoyle guarding a gate.

"Your mother only wants the best for you," my father grunted, pulling me away from the desk. "Go make dinner. I have a poker game tonight."

He dragged me toward the kitchen, making sure I couldn't get near the keyboard. I stood by the stove, my eyes glued to the microwave clock.

The portal was set to lock at 6:00 PM.

At 5:30 PM, I sent an anonymous video file to my mother's phone.

A second later, a loud gasp echoed from the living room, followed by the sound of a chair crashing backward. My mother stormed into the kitchen, her face twisted in blind rage, and threw a devastating slap right across my father's face.

"You bastard! You've been sleeping around behind my backand you even have a kid with her!"