Chapter 5 - THE MONEY WITH MY FACE ON IT
The fundraiser had collected more than eighty-four thousand dollars.
That sounded like a fortune.
It wasn't the only money.
Investigators found sponsorship income.
Affiliate links.
Subscription payments.
Tips.
Brand partnerships.
Merchandise.
Three years of content featuring me had generated approximately $312,000 in gross revenue.
My face.
My crying.
My punishments.
My bedroom.
My school problems.
My body.
None of the money belonged legally to me automatically under the rules that existed when most videos were made.
That shocked me when Grace explained it.
“Then whose was it?”
“Your mother's business income.”
“But I'm the video.”
“I know.”
“That seems stupid.”
Grace nodded.
“Sometimes laws arrive after the problem.”
Some states had begun passing protections for children used in monetized family content.
Ours had limited rules.
Not enough.
The district attorney couldn't simply give me all the revenue.
But restitution could cover some direct losses.
The fundraising platform returned remaining donations where possible.
Financial settlements created a protected account for me.
I didn't care at eleven.
Money was how adults made things complicated.
I cared about videos.
“Can we delete them?”
Grace became quiet.
“Some.”
“Some?”
“Your mother's originals can be removed. Platforms can process requests.”
“And the rest?”
“Copies exist.”
I hated that.
“How many?”
“We don't know.”
I felt sick.
Some stranger could save me kneeling beside a bowl forever.
My worst day as entertainment.
Grace did not lie.
“We may not be able to remove everything.”
“Then what's the point?”
“The point is reducing access, enforcing what rights you have, and making future use harder.”
Not perfect.
Useful.
That became a theme.
Rachel helped me file privacy requests.
Platforms removed thousands of reposts.
Some accounts fought.
Some claimed “fair use.”
Some viewers said Mom had inspired them.
A woman wrote:
Her parenting content helped me discipline my own daughter.
I threw up after reading that.
Then we stopped reading.
Rachel created a rule:
No searching my own name without an adult.
At first I hated it.
Then I understood.
Curiosity is not always safe.
The money eventually funded therapy.
Education savings.
Legal costs.
Nothing glamorous.
Rachel refused to touch the protected account except for approved expenses.
One evening, I asked:
“What if I want a laptop?”
“Save allowance.”
“But there's money.”
“Yes.”
“My money.”
“Protected money.”
“That's unfair.”
“You'll survive.”
I did.
At thirteen, I bought my own refurbished laptop after saving for eight months.
I loved that machine irrationally.
Probably because nobody filmed me opening it.
No sponsor.
No reaction.
No retake.
Just mine.
Mom wrote from custody.
Eventually, one letter felt different.
Not:
I did it for us.
Not:
Darren manipulated me.
Not:
People misunderstood.
She wrote:
Emma, I learned to look at you through the phone before I looked at you as my daughter.
I stopped reading.
Then continued.
When a video did well, I wanted the next one to do better. Your real feelings became material. If you cried, part of me comforted you and another part wondered whether I had captured it. I am ashamed of that sentence, which is why I know I have to write it.
My hands shook.
The money made it easier to justify. People told me I was helping other mothers. I liked being praised for surviving problems that I was sometimes creating myself.
That was the first time Mom named it.
I used food because it got reactions. I used your school problems because people argued in comments. I used your fear because fear looked convincing on camera. I am sorry.
No request to see me.
No:
Please forgive.
The final line:
You do not owe me content, comfort, forgiveness, or a relationship.
I gave the letter to my therapist.
“Do you believe her?”
She asked:
“Do you?”
“I don't know.”
“Good answer.”
Adults loved that phrase.
May you like
I began to understand why.
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