My mom forced my sister into an eating disorder for fame and refused to see what’s wrong with it. So, I made her realize in the most extreme way possible. My mom is the most entitled beach I’ve ever met. She was the type to believe that she should be handed money simply for existing. So, by the time I was 10 years old, me and my older sister Zara, who was 11, had spent our entire lives living in a trailer in the middle of nowhere.
And it was around this time that the YouTube era really took off. You know, the challenges, slime videos, toy unboxings. So when child influencers started popping up, she turned us into her gold mines. She set up cameras all around the house, said it was for security, started feeding us three times the amount of food to make us stand out.
By 11 years old, I was 120 lb and 4’6, while my older sister was 12 years old, 4’8 and 145 lb. You see, she always gave into my mom’s demands more than me. She would start her morning by guzzling one of those mass gainer protein shakes and wash it down with a huge burger. So her career took off before mine.
Mom used to film her rolling around in the garden, falling over in playgrounds, and sometimes pranking her. I remember when Zara hit her first 500K view video. Mom told her she was the best daughter a mother could ask for and even took her out shopping. I’m so glad you’re not like your freeloader sister who can’t make me happy for tea.
Her backhanded comments were designed to hurt me. But instead, they just made me feel bad for Zara because I was forced to watch as she became more and more brainwashed. Eventually, she had so many sponsor deals and basically became the bread winner of the family that I couldn’t even compete anymore. So, I stopped gaining so much weight and instead got to live life as a healthy, happy girl.
And I tried to flaunt this to Zara, hoping it would make something click in her head. I’m so full. I’m going to stop eating now. I’d proudly exclaim at the dinner table. Or sometimes I’d walk into Zara’s room and talk about how happy I was to have some privacy, but it never worked.
And by the time she had turned 15, they had published over 1,000 fat girl videos, so the trend was over. Then came the next wave of mom’s BS. her obsession with beauty. I still remember the day she came home with her first tummy tuck. She was showing it off to me while she stared at herself in the mirror. My mom hugged her super tight and that evening, she literally threw a party for Zara.
Not for her birthday, not for any major celebration. It was solely to commemorate her existence. Over the next few weeks, Zara became mom’s little Barbie doll. Platinum blonde hair, lip filler, lipo suction. By this point, I was 13 years old and hadn’t been shown any affection from my family since the fat girl era. And even though I knew it was wrong, all I wanted was my mom’s approval.
So I agreed to get lip filler and cut my diet down to one meal a day. And she thanked me, but that was it because it was already too late. Zara had a fan base who loved her. And to the world, I would always just be Zara’s sister. In the streets, boys would come up to me and tell me that Zara had rejected them and ask if I wanted to give them a chance instead.
Other times, people would befriend me for months. And then I’d found out it was only because they wanted to feature on Zara’s social media. and I didn’t even have a sister anymore because anytime I tried to talk to her, she would convince me to get surgery and become an influencer. Fast forward to when I turned 17 and I finally moved out for college.
I changed all my social media to a completely new name and moved to Jamestown in Tennessee, somewhere no one would recognize me. I finally got my fresh start. I practiced intuitive eating and my weight stopped fluctuating. I met friends who loved me for who I was. I stopped feeling like I was being watched 24/7. And a few years later, when I was doing my routine check of Zara’s social media, I saw that she had stopped posting.
This was strange because she was still getting millions of views and her comments were filled with love. Part of me was extremely worried, but mostly I was curious as heck. So much so that I ended up going back home for Thanksgiving that year. The second my mom opened the door, she slapped me across the face. You fat pig. How could you have let go of yourself so badly? I sighed and just shoved past her, completely expecting this response.
Zara, get out here. Show your sister what you’ve been working on. That’s when I heard it, a vomiting sound coming from the bathroom. I walked in and saw Zara hunched over the toilet bowl, forcing herself to throw up. Tears formed in my eyes. I instinctively ran over to her and cleaned her mouth up with a tissue.
Her eyes had this far away look like she had been numb for years. As I tried to help her stand, I ended up accidentally lifting her from the floor. That’s how light she had become. Mom says I can’t post until I’m beautiful again. Her words were slurred and she was practically on the verge of death. I was ready to make our mom pay.
I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. My sister looked like a skeleton with skin. Her cheeks were sunken in and her arms were basically twigs. I helped her to her bedroom while mom followed behind us, going on about how Zara had let herself go and needed to get back on track. The whole time I wanted to scream at her, but I knew it wouldn’t help Zara right now.
Mom kept saying things like, “The fans are waiting, Zara. They miss you. We can’t disappoint them.” As if the faceless masses online were more important than her daughter’s life. Zara’s room was covered in post-it notes with calorie counts and workout routines. Her closet was full of size double O clothes with the tag still on them.
I noticed a scale in the corner that had decimal points, the kind that measures down to the tenth of a pound. This wasn’t just dieting. This was full-blown torture. There were also charts on the wall tracking her measurements, waist, hips, thighs with angry red circles around numbers that were apparently too high. I tried talking to Zara alone, but mom kept hovering around us.
When I finally got a moment, I whispered that she needed help. Zara just stared at the wall and mumbled something about needing to hit her goal weight. I asked what that was and she showed me a picture of herself from when she was 12. My heart sank into my stomach. She wanted to look like a pre-teen again before puberty had given her any curves at all.
That night, I couldn’t sleep. I kept thinking about how to get Zara away from mom. I called my friend Marcus from college who was studying psychology. He told me this was serious and Zara needed medical attention right away. I agreed but knew mom would never allow it. She’d built her entire identity around controlling Zara’s image.
Marcus suggested I document everything I could. It might be needed later if things got legal. The next morning, I tried reasoning with mom while Zara was in the shower. I tried to sound casual, mentioning that Zara looked tired and maybe needed a break. I told her that Zara looked sick and needed to see a doctor.
Mom laughed in my face and told me I was just jealous because Zara was disciplined and I wasn’t. When I mentioned eating disorders, she slammed her coffee mug down so hard it cracked. “Don’t you dare use those words in my house,” she hissed. “Zara is an artist and her body is her canvas. You wouldn’t understand because you’ve always been lazy.
I decided to take matters into my own hands.” While mom was busy editing videos, I snuck into her room and found Zara’s phone. I was shocked to see that mom had complete control of all Zara’s accounts. She was the one responding to comments, scheduling posts, and even texting Zara’s friends. Zara had no privacy whatsoever.
I scrolled through the messages and found dozens from concerned fans asking if Zara was okay, saying she looked too thin in her last posts. Mom had replied to them all with cheerful lies about fitness journeys and clean eating. I took pictures of everything I found. the bathroom where Zara was purging, the notes about calories, the contracts mom had signed in Zara’s name.
I wasn’t sure what I’d do with them yet, but I knew I needed evidence. When mom caught me in her room, I pretended I was looking for an old photo album. She seemed suspicious, but let it go. Before leaving that weekend, I managed to slip Zara my phone number on a small piece of paper. I told her to call me anytime, day or night. Mom was watching us like a hawk, but Zara nodded slightly.
I wasn’t sure if she would actually reach out, but it was all I could do for now. Back at my apartment in Tennessee, I couldn’t focus on anything. My roommate Denise noticed something was wrong and I ended up telling her everything. She was horrified and suggested I call child protective services, but Zara was 19 now, technically an adult.
The system that might have helped us as kids couldn’t do anything anymore. 3 weeks later at 2:00 a.m., I got a text from an unknown number. It was Zara. All it said was, “Help.” My heart started racing. I called the number immediately, but no one answered. I tried again and again, but nothing.
I packed a bag and started the 4-hour drive back home, calling Zara’s number every 15 minutes. I arrived at our old trailer around 6:00 a.m. Exhausted from the drive and sick with worry. I parked a little way down the road so mom wouldn’t hear me coming. The sun was barely up and the place looked even more depressing than I remembered.
The garden where Zara used to film those stupid videos was overgrown now, and there were empty bottles scattered across the front yard. I tried calling Zara’s number again, but it went straight to voicemail. I crept around to the back of the trailer where our bedroom windows were. Zara’s curtains were drawn, but I could see a faint light inside.
I picked up a few small pebbles and tossed them at her window, just like we used to do as kids when we wanted to talk without mom knowing. After a minute, the curtain moved slightly. Zara’s face appeared, looking ghostly in the early morning light. Her eyes widened when she saw me. She held up one finger, telling me to wait, then disappeared.
5 minutes later, she slipped out the back door, wearing an oversized hoodie that made her look even smaller. “What happened?” “I got your text,” I whispered, hugging her carefully. She felt like she might break in my arms. Zara glanced nervously at the trailer. She told me mom had found out she’d been hiding food in her room instead of eating it.
As punishment, mom had locked her in the bathroom with nothing but laxatives and diet pills for an entire day. She’d taken Zara’s phone away after that, but Zara had managed to use mom’s phone while she was passed out hammered. I was horrified. This wasn’t just controlling behavior anymore. This was straight up abuse.
I told Zara she needed to come with me right now, that we could figure everything out once she was safe. She started shaking her head before I even finished talking. I can’t leave, she whispered. All the money is in accounts with mom’s name on them. She says if I leave, she’ll tell everyone I’m on substances and ruin my reputation. No one will believe me.
I wanted to scream. Of course, mom had made sure to keep financial control. That’s how she’d always operated. I asked Zara if she at least had access to any of her earnings, and she shook her head. According to mom, all that money was being invested for Zara’s future. I knew that was complete BS. We heard movement inside the trailer, and Zara’s eyes went wide with panic.
She quickly hugged me and ran back inside before I could stop her. I stood there feeling completely useless. I couldn’t force her to leave, but I couldn’t leave her there either. I drove to the nearest motel and got a room. I needed to think. I called Denise for advice, and she suggested I try to document everything and maybe talk to Zara’s followers, but that seemed risky.
Mom controlled all those accounts, and I didn’t want to make things worse for Zara. I decided to stay in town for a few days. I called my college and explained I had a family emergency. My professor, Frank, was understanding and gave me an extension on my assignments. Then I went to the local library and started researching financial abuse and adult protective services.
Most resources were for elderly abuse, not for situations like Zara’s. The next day, I went back to the trailer when I knew mom would be out. She always went grocery shopping on Tuesdays. Some things never changed. Zara let me in, looking nervously over her shoulder the whole time. The inside of the trailer was spotless. Mom had always been obsessive about cleanliness when it came to filming spaces, but Zara’s room was like a prison cell.
There were no personal items, just clothes arranged by color and size and those horrible measurement charts. I helped Zara gather some essential documents, her birth certificate, social security card, and ID. She kept them hidden in an old stuffed animal we’d shared as kids. Mom had never known about that hiding spot.
I also took pictures of the contracts mom had made Zara sign, giving her control over all aspects of Zara’s life and career. Zara showed me her secret journal where she’d been documenting everything Mom had done over the past year. The things I read made me sick to my stomach. Mom had been forcing her to take sleeping pills so she could control her hunger.
She’d been making Zara weigh herself five times a day and punishing her if the number went up even slightly. There were days when mom would only let her have ice cubes and celery. I begged Zara again to come with me, but she was terrified of what mom would do. She was convinced mom would destroy her completely if she tried to leave.
Years of manipulation had done their work. Zara genuinely believed she couldn’t survive without mom. We came up with a plan instead. I would leave notes for Zara in our old hiding spot, a loose floorboard under her bed. she could write back to me and we could communicate without mom knowing. I also gave Zara a prepaid phone I’d bought at the gas station.
She hid it inside the stuffed animal along with her documents. Before I left, I helped Zara eat a proper meal. I’d brought sandwiches and she ate so slowly, taking tiny bites like she was afraid of the food. She told me mom had convinced her that hunger pains were just weakness leaving the body. I wanted to cry watching her struggle with something as simple as eating a sandwich.
Over the next few weeks, I drove back and forth between college and our hometown. I’d leave notes for Zara and she’d respond when she could. Sometimes her messages were hopeful. She’d managed to keep down a full meal or she’d stood up to mom about something small. Other times they were desperate and scared. Mom was getting more unpredictable, drinking more heavily and flying into rages when Zara didn’t lose weight fast enough.
I started saving money from my part-time job, putting aside every penny I could for Zara’s escape fund. My roommate Denise even contributed some of her waitressing tips. We were slowly building a safety net for when Zara was finally ready to leave. Then one day, I went to check our hiding spot and found nothing. No new note from Zara, and the old ones were gone, too.
I panicked and tried calling the prepaid phone, but there was no answer. I waited around for hours, but Zara never appeared at her window. I decided to risk confronting mom directly. I knocked on the front door, heart pounding. Mom opened it with a fake smile plastered on her face. “Well, look who decided to grace us with her presence,” she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm.
I asked to see Zara, trying to keep my voice steady. Mom’s smile got even wider, which was never a good sign. She told me Zara was focusing on her comeback and couldn’t be disturbed. When I insisted, she pulled out her phone and showed me a post from Zara’s account from just an hour ago. A perfectly edited photo with a caption about exciting new projects coming soon.
I knew it was fake. Mom had probably posted it herself. I pushed past her into the trailer, calling Zara’s name. Mom grabbed my arm, her nails digging into my skin. She hissed that I was ruining everything, that Zara was finally getting back on track until I started filling her head with nonsense. That’s when I noticed the bathroom door was locked from the outside.
I ran to it, ignoring mom’s screaming, and yanked the makeshift lock open. Zara was inside, sitting on the floor, pale and shaking. There was vomit in the toilet and empty laxative packages on the counter. She looked up at me with those dead eyes and whispered, “I gained half a pound.” I helped Zara up and told her we were leaving right now.
Mom blocked the doorway, phone in hand, recording everything. She was narrating as if this was just another video. Look at this family drama, guys. My ungrateful daughter thinks she knows what’s best for her sister. I grabbed Zara’s hand and pushed past Mom, knocking the phone out of her hand in the process. Mom lunged for it, giving us just enough time to get out the front door.
But Zara was so weak she could barely walk. I half carried her to my car while mom followed, still recording and now threatening to call the police and report her car stolen, even though it was actually Zara’s car bought with her earnings. We made it to my car and I helped Zara into the passenger seat. As I started the engine, mom slammed her hands on the hood, screaming that Zara was nothing without her, that she’d made her everything she was.
I saw Zara flinch at every word. Years of conditioning making her believe these horrible things. I drove straight to the hospital. Zara protested weakly, saying she was fine, but I wasn’t taking any chances. In the emergency room, the nurse took one look at Zara and rushed her in immediately. Her heart rate was dangerously low, and she was severely dehydrated.
The doctor later told me she was showing signs of organ failure. If we’d waited even a few more days, she might not have made it. While Zara was being treated, I sat in the waiting room making calls. I contacted Zara’s old high school counselor, Miss Patel, who had always been kind to us. She recommended a lawyer who specialized in cases of financial exploitation.
I also called Marcus, who put me in touch with an eating disorder specialist in Nashville. Mom showed up at the hospital a few hours later, putting on a concerned mother act for the staff. She tried to take control of Zara’s treatment, claiming Zara was confused and dramatic, but I’d already told the doctors about the situation, and they restricted access to Zara’s room.
Mom threw a fit in the lobby, threatening to sue everyone until security escorted her out. Zara stayed in the hospital for two weeks. The doctors were shocked at her condition. She had the bone density of someone three times her age, and her heart was strained from years of starvation and purging. During this time, I stayed by her side as much as possible, only leaving to attend my most important classes.
While Zara was recovering, I worked with the lawyer, Taylor, to start untangling the financial mess. We discovered mom had opened multiple credit cards in Zara’s name and racked up massive debt. She’d also been skimming money from Zara’s sponsorship deals, taking far more than a manager’s standard percentage. The lawyer helped us file for financial abuse and identity theft.
Mom didn’t go down without a fight. She started posting on Zara’s accounts, claiming Zara was having a mental breakdown and I was manipulating her. She even posted old videos of us as kids, edited to make it look like I was always jealous of Zara. Her followers were confused and many of them believed her story. One day while Zara was napping in her hospital room, I checked her social media and saw mom had posted a heartfelt message supposedly from Zara claiming she was being held against her will and needed her fans help to rescue her. The post
included the hospital name. I panicked and alerted hospital security just as several of Zara’s more obsessive fans showed up demanding to see her. The hospital moved Zara to a different room with enhanced security. The stress was taking a toll on her recovery, and the doctors were concerned.
That night, Zara had a panic attack so severe they had to sedate her. Watching her struggle to breathe, I felt a rage building inside me that I’d never experienced before. I decided it was time to fight fire with fire. With Zara’s permission, I created a new account, not connected to any of her existing ones, and posted a single unedited video of Zara in her hospital bed, explaining in her own words what had been happening.
She showed the feeding tube they’d had to insert, the bruises from blood draws because her veins kept collapsing, and the heart monitor she had to wear constantly. She spoke directly to her followers, her voice shaky, but determined. She told them about the years of abuse, the financial control, and how mom had been the one posting as her all along.
She asked for privacy and understanding as she focused on recovery. The video went viral within hours. Mom tried to claim it was fake or manipulated, but too many people recognized the truth in Zara’s hollow eyes and trembling hands. Former friends of Mom’s started coming forward with stories of how they’d witnessed her controlling behavior over the years.
One of mom’s ex-boyfriends, Justin, even shared text messages where mom had bragged about how much money she was making off Zara’s pathetic fans. The tide of public opinion turned quickly. Mom’s attempts to paint herself as the victim only made things worse for her. She started losing followers by the thousands.
Brands that had worked with Zara issued statements distancing themselves from the situation and wishing Zara well in her recovery. Mom showed up at the hospital again, this time with a lawyer of her own. They demanded to see Zara, claiming Mom had legal authority as her manager. But our lawyer, Taylor, had already filed emergency paperwork to terminate all contracts between them.
The hospital refused to let mom in, and she was escorted out again, screaming about ingratitude and betrayal. That night, we got a call from our neighbor Martha saying mom was at the trailer destroying things and drinking heavily. She’d apparently gone on a rampage after being denied access to Zara, smashing furniture, and burning photos.
Martha was worried she might burn the whole place down. I called the police, something I’d been afraid to do for years because of mom’s threats about what would happen if authorities ever got involved in our family. They found mom passed out among the destruction. Empty bottles everywhere. They took her to the station to sober up and she was charged with public intoxication and property damage.
While mom was dealing with her legal issues, Zara was making slow but steady progress. The nutritionist, Dr. Olivia, had created a careful refeeding plan to avoid refeeding syndrome. Zara struggled with every meal. Years of food fear not easily overcome, but she was trying. and that was what mattered. The therapist, Dr.
Matthew, helped Zara understand how mom had manipulated her from such a young age. He explained that what she’d experienced was a form of munchowin by proxy that had evolved into financial and psychological abuse. Zara had panic attacks during some sessions, the reality of her situation finally sinking in. I attended family therapy sessions with Zara, where we talked about our shared trauma and the wedge mom had driven between us.
It was painful but necessary. Zara admitted she’d resented me for escaping while she remained trapped. I admitted I’d felt guilty for leaving her behind. We cried together, beginning the long process of healing our relationship. After a month, Zara was stable enough to be discharged. The question was where she would go. She couldn’t return to the trailer, and my college apartment was too small for both of us. That’s when Ms.
Patel came through for us again. She had a mother-in-law suite attached to her house that she offered to Zara at a minimal rent until she got back on her feet. The day Zara moved in with Miss Patel, mom showed up, clearly hammered despite it being only noon. She started screaming in the front yard about ungrateful children and how she’d given up everything for Zara’s career.
Miss Patel calmly called the police while I stayed inside with Zara, who was shaking uncontrollably at the sound of mom’s voice. Mom was arrested for violating the temporary restraining order we’d gotten after the hospital incidents. As the police car drove away with her in the back seat, I felt no satisfaction, only a profound sadness for the mother we should have had, but never did.
The financial battle was far from over. Mom had hidden money in various accounts, and tracing it all was a complex process. The lawyer discovered she’d spent most of Zara’s earnings on plastic surgery for herself, luxury items, and alcohol. What should have been a substantial nest egg for Zara was mostly gone. But there was some good news.
Several of the brands Zara had worked with offered settlements when they learned about the situation. Not wanting to be associated with the exploitation of a young influencer. It wasn’t the fortune Zara should have had, but it was enough to pay for her ongoing medical care and therapy. Zara decided she wanted nothing more to do with social media or being an influencer.
She deleted all her accounts. Despite having millions of followers, some fans were upset, but most understood after everything that had happened. Zara told me she felt like she could finally breathe without the constant pressure of performing for the camera. I went back to college, but visited Zara every weekend.
Each time I could see small improvements. She was gaining weight slowly. Her hair was getting healthier, and sometimes she even laughed, a sound I hadn’t heard in years. She started taking online classes, working toward a degree in psychology. She wanted to help other young people who had been exploited like she had. Mom was sentenced to three years in prison for her crimes.
While she was incarcerated, the landlord of our trailer discovered she hadn’t been paying rent for months. Six months after mom’s sentencing, we received notice that the trailer had been officially condemned and would be demolished. We had no idea where mom would go after her release, and part of me was worried about her despite everything.
But a larger part was relieved to have one less way for her to find us. Zara was still fragile, still fighting her eating disorder every day. There were setbacks. days when she couldn’t face food, nights when she woke up screaming from nightmares about mom watching her. But there was progress, too.
She joined a support group for survivors of family abuse. She started volunteering at an animal shelter, finding comfort in caring for creatures who had also been abandoned or mistreated. One evening, as we sat on Miss Patel’s porch drinking tea, Zara showed me a journal she’d been keeping. Not the documentation of abuse from before, but a record of her recovery journey.
Each page had a small victory written on it. Ate a full meal without checking calories. went a whole day without thinking about my weight. Told Dr. Matthew about the hidden camera in the bathroom. That last one made my blood run cold. I asked Zara what she meant, and she explained that mom had installed tiny cameras in the bathroom and her bedroom, supposedly to catch her cheating on her diet.
The videos had never been posted publicly, but mom had used them to shame and control Zara, showing her footage of herself eating forbidden foods or not exercising hard enough. This was a new level of violation I hadn’t even known about. I hugged Zara tightly as she cried, finally releasing some of the shame she’d been carrying.
We added this information to the growing file of evidence against mom. The next day, I received a strange email from an anonymous account. It contained dozens of video files and a short message. Your mother saved these on my cloud account. I can’t be part of this anymore. It was signed only a former friend. I opened one video and immediately felt sick.
It was footage from those hidden cameras showing Zara in deeply private moments. There were also videos of mom coaching Zara on how to make herself throw up more efficiently, how to hide food so it looked like she’d eaten it, how to lie to doctors about her symptoms. This was the evidence we needed, irrefutable proof of the abuse Zara had suffered.
But I couldn’t bear the thought of these videos being seen by lawyers, judges, or anyone else. The violation was too extreme. I called Taylor for advice, and they suggested having a digital forensics expert verify the authenticity of a few key clips without viewing the most invasive content.
I showed Zara the email, preparing for her to fall apart. Instead, she got very quiet, then said something that chilled me. She always told me someone was watching. I thought it was just to scare me, but she was right. She was always watching. I decided to share the videos with Zara before doing anything else. It was her privacy that had been violated, so it should be her choice what happened next.
We sat together at Ms. Patel’s kitchen table, both of us crying as we watched mom’s systematic abuse caught on camera. Zara kept saying, “I knew it.” over and over. She’d always felt like she was being watched, but mom had convinced her it was just paranoia from not eating enough.
After seeing enough to confirm what we were dealing with, we called Taylor. They came over that same day and watched just enough to understand the severity. Their face got really serious and they told us this changed everything. The videos proved not just financial exploitation but criminal abuse and child endangerment since some dated back to when Zara was underage.
Taylor recommended we take this evidence to the police. Zara was terrified at first. She didn’t want strangers seeing her in vulnerable moments, but Taylor explained we could provide just enough evidence to build a case without exposing the most private footage. After thinking about it overnight, Zara agreed.
She said she wanted mom to face consequences so she couldn’t do this to anyone else. The next day, we went to the police station. The detective who took our statement, a woman named Officer Brenda, was surprisingly understanding. She specialized in domestic abuse cases and had seen similar situations before. She took copies of selected videos that showed the clearest examples of abuse without the most invasive content.
Officer Brenda told us they’d investigate and build a case, but it might take time. In the meantime, she strongly recommended we both stay somewhere mom wouldn’t know about. Miss Patel offered to let me stay with them, too, but I was worried about putting them all at risk. Instead, my roommate Denise suggested we all stay with her parents, who had a large house about an hour away from town.
They were traveling in Europe for the next month, so the place was empty. We packed up that night and headed to Denise’s parents’ place. It was the first time I’d felt truly safe in months. The house had a security system, and Denise’s neighbor, Albert, was a retired cop who kept an eye on things. We didn’t tell anyone where we were staying except Taylor and Officer Brenda.
About a week later, we got a call from Officer Brenda. They’d found mom living in a motel on the edge of town. When they went to question her, they found her room filled with printouts of Zara’s photos, schedules of our movements, and plans to get Zara back. There were also empty liquor bottles everywhere and prescription pills that weren’t hers.
They arrested her on the spot for stalking and possession of controlled substances. I felt this weird mix of relief and sadness when I heard the news. Mom was clearly unwell, but she’d also chosen to hurt us over and over again. Zara just sat quietly when I told her, then asked if we could go for a walk.
We walked around Denise’s parents’ neighborhood for an hour without talking much. Finally, Zara said she felt nothing. Not happy, not sad, just empty. The therapist later told us this was a normal response to trauma. The next few weeks were a blur of legal meetings and therapy sessions. Mom was charged with multiple crimes, stalking, identity theft, financial exploitation of a vulnerable adult, child endangerment, and possession of controlled substances.
She was held without bail because she was considered a flight risk and danger to us. During this time, Zara started making real progress in her recovery. Without the constant threat of mom hanging over her, she was able to focus on healing. She gained 10 healthy pounds. Her hair stopped falling out. She even started talking about maybe going to college in person instead of online.
One day, Taylor called with surprising news. Mom’s lawyer had reached out about a plea deal. She would plead guilty to reduce charges in exchange for a shorter sentence. The prosecutor was considering it because it would spare Zara from having to testify. They wanted our input before deciding. Zara and I talked it over for hours. Part of me wanted mom to face the maximum punishment for what she’d done, but another part just wanted this to be over so we could move on with our lives.
Zara felt the same way. She told me she didn’t think she could handle seeing mom in court or having her story picked apart by lawyers. We told Taylor we were okay with the plea deal as long as it included mandatory psychiatric treatment and a permanent restraining order. The prosecutor agreed to these terms and mom took the deal.
She was sentenced to 3 years in prison followed by 5 years of probation. She would also have to complete an intensive psychiatric program and addiction treatment. The day of mom’s sentencing, we decided not to attend. Instead, we went hiking at a state park with Denise and Marcus. It was the first time I’d seen Zara truly relaxed in years.
She laughed when she slipped in a muddy patch instead of freaking out about getting dirty like mom had trained her to do. We took pictures just for ourselves, not for any audience. With the legal stuff mostly settled, we had to figure out what to do next. Taylor had managed to recover some of Zara’s money. Not all of it, but enough to give her a fresh start.
Mizie Patel suggested Zara apply to the community college where she taught English. Zara liked the idea but was worried about being recognized. That’s when I had an idea. Zara had always loved art before mom pushed her into being an influencer. She used to draw all the time. I asked if she’d ever considered studying that instead of psychology. Her whole face lit up.
She admitted she’d been sketching again during therapy as a way to process her feelings. We looked into art programs together and found one at a small college in Oregon. It was perfect, far away from our hometown with a supportive environment and good mental health resources. Zara applied and was accepted for the spring semester.
I decided to transfer there, too. Switching my major from business to social work. After everything we’d been through, I wanted to help other people escape bad situations. Before moving, we had one last thing to do. We went back to the trailer to collect any remaining personal items. The place had been trashed.
Whether by mom before her arrest or by squatters after, we couldn’t tell. Most of our childhood stuff was ruined. But I found an old photo album under a floorboard. It had pictures from before mom’s obsession with making us famous. Just normal family moments at the park or eating ice cream. Zara stared at those photos for a long time.
“We were happy once, weren’t we?” she asked. “I wasn’t sure if we had been or if I was just remembering things through a child’s eyes, but I nodded anyway.” We took the album and left everything else behind. The move to Oregon was the fresh start we both needed. We found a small apartment near campus that we could afford with our combined resources.
Zara decorated her room with her artwork, and I filled mine with books. We adopted a cat from the local shelter, a skinny orange thing that had been abandoned. We named him Phoenix. College was challenging for both of us in different ways. I had to learn how to trust people again after years of watching mom manipulate everyone around her.
Zara had to get used to being treated as a normal person, not a commodity or a project. We both had nightmares and bad days, but they became less frequent as time passed. 6 months after we moved, Zara got an email from one of her former fans. Somehow they’d tracked down her new email address. I was worried at first, but the message was actually really sweet.
This fan had noticed Zara’s disappearance from social media and had eventually found the video where she explained what happened. They wanted Zara to know that her story had helped them recognize the signs of exploitation in their own life and get help. Zara cried when she read it. Not sad tears, but healing ones.
She asked me if I thought she should respond. I told her it was entirely her choice. Her life was her own now. She decided to write back thanking them but politely explaining that she was building a new life away from social media. That email got Zara thinking though. She started researching organizations that helped young influencers understand their rights and protect themselves from exploitation.
There weren’t many. She wondered aloud if maybe that could be her purpose. Not being an influencer herself, but helping others navigate that world safely. I supported the idea, but reminded her she didn’t need to figure everything out right away. We were still young, me, 21, her 22.
we had time to heal before taking on the world’s problems. She agreed, but started volunteering with a local youth center, teaching art classes to teens. It was her way of giving back while she figured out her longerterm goals. Around the 1-year anniversary of mom’s sentencing, we got a letter from her through Taylor.
She was still in prison, but had completed several treatment programs. She wrote that she was sorry for what she’d done and was working to understand why she’d hurt us. She asked if we would consider visiting or writing back. Zara and I discussed it for days. Our therapists both advised caution, reminding us that we didn’t owe mom forgiveness or contact.
In the end, we decided not to respond for now. Maybe someday we would be ready, but not yet. We were still building our foundation of safety and trust. Instead of focusing on mom, we celebrated our progress. Zara had gone 3 months without any eating disorder behaviors, her longest streak ever.
I had made the dean’s list and was being considered for an internship with a family advocacy center. We threw ourselves a little party with Denise and Marcus, who had flown out to visit us. During the party, Zara showed everyone her latest art project, a series of self-portraits showing her journey from exploitation to freedom.
They were raw and powerful, not the polished, filtered images mom had forced her to create. Her art professor had encouraged her to submit them to a student exhibition, and she was considering it. That night, after everyone had gone to bed, Zara and I sat on our tiny balcony looking at the stars.
She told me she’d finally stopped checking for cameras in the bathroom and bedroom. I admitted I still sometimes worried about being watched or recorded. We agreed these habits would probably take years to fully break, but we were making progress. “Do you ever miss it?” I asked. “The attention, the followers, all that,” Zara thought for a moment.
“I miss feeling like I mattered to people,” she said. “But now I realize that wasn’t real. They didn’t know the real me. They knew mom’s version of me.” I nodded. “You matter to me,” I told her. “The real you.” She smiled and squeezed my hand. “And you matter to me. Thanks for not giving up on me.” We sat in comfortable silence after that, just being sisters without all the competition and manipulation mom had created between us.
Phoenix jumped into Zara’s lap, purring loudly. He had gained weight, too. His once skinny frame now healthy and strong. The next morning, I woke up to find Zara making breakfast. Real food, not the diet crap mom had forced on us. She was humming to herself, looking out the window at the mountains in the distance.
I watched her for a moment, remembering the hollowedeyed girl I’d found hunched over the toilet bowl that Thanksgiving. The difference was incredible. “What?” she asked, noticing me staring. “Nothing,” I said. “Just happy to see you happy.” She smiled, a genuine smile that reached her eyes. I’m getting there.
She said, “We both are.” And she was right. We were getting there. One day at a time, building the lives we should have had all along. Not perfect lives. We both still carried scars from our childhood, but authentic ones. Lives that belong to us, not to mom or her cameras or the faceless audience that had consumed our pain for entertainment.
That was worth more than all the followers in the
