Chapter 2: The Digital Leash Tightens
“Nina, did you get to campus? Is your dorm clean? Remember to use the 100% cotton sheets I packed for you—the others will irritate your skin.”
My mother’s voice through the phone is like an invisible net, instantly tightening around the fleeting freedom I just tasted. There’s always something about her tone, a way she draws out my name that makes me feel like I’m twelve again, sneakers muddy in her freshly mopped kitchen.
“Got it, Mom.”
I answer mechanically, my eyes drifting over the other three girls in the dorm, each busy with her own things—Jamie FaceTiming her boyfriend with a Taylor Swift poster behind her, Megan tossing laundry into a bright red Target hamper, Priya’s laptop glowing with a Friends rerun paused in the corner. They’re laughing about classes and midnight plans, their parents already gone, free from these invisible strings.
Their parents have already left, but my mother insists on “remote guidance” for my every move. She’s got my entire college schedule printed on the fridge at home, highlighted in three colors.
“By the way, about your living expenses.” Her tone suddenly hardens, switching from warm to rigid in a single breath, like she’s flicking off a light.
“I’ve set up a Family Wallet for you. I can see every single purchase you make.”
“There are too many temptations at college. I have to help you stay on the right track.”
My heart sinks. The air in the room gets thinner, like someone opened a window in February. I wonder if Jamie can see the color drain from my face.
A Family Wallet means every cent I spend will be reported to my mother in real time. No Venmo privacy, no sneaky Starbucks runs—just a digital leash tied to her phone. No more late-night snacks. No more secret lattes. Every impulse, every craving, every small taste of independence—audited.
She’ll know what I bought, when, and for how much. Every transaction, a data point in her spreadsheet of my life.
This isn’t support—it’s surveillance. I glance at my pillow, the one she embroidered with my initials in high school. Now it feels like a tag, marking me as property.
“Mom, other students—”
“Other students are other students. You are my daughter.” She cuts me off.
“That’s settled. Remember, don’t spend a single cent on anything unnecessary.”
After I hang up, my roommate Jamie walks over curiously. “Your mom really cares about you, even set up a Family Wallet.” She tries for a friendly smile, but her eyes flicker with something between pity and horror.
I force a smile. I don’t explain the suffocating control that hides behind this so-called ‘care.’ Instead, I pull my hoodie tighter around me, shrinking from her well-meaning gaze.
College life has officially begun—and so has a new level of my nightmare. It’s not homesickness I feel, but a different kind of homesickness: longing for a home that lets me breathe.
Every time I buy something, no matter how small, my mother’s call comes within five minutes. The first week, I timed her—she never misses.
“Nina, did you just buy a Frappuccino?”
“Drinks from outside aren’t healthy. Didn’t I give you those herbal tea bags?”
“What’s this $4.99 charge?”
“Oh, laundry detergent? Doesn’t the dorm have public washing machines? Why buy your own?”
“You bought a book? What book? Is it a textbook? Send me the title.”
Every day, I have to explain, justify, or even apologize for every trivial purchase. My bank account is a confessional, my receipts a string of small sins.
My roommates soon notice my oddness. They shop on Amazon, order takeout, and go out freely, while I live under my mother’s financial surveillance—even a box of tampons needs her approval. Sometimes Jamie offers to split delivery, or Megan suggests an outing, but I always hesitate, calculating the fallout with every dollar.