Chapter 6 - The Fall of the Wellness Queen
The fallout from the Elmwood Lane property liquidation did not stop at the empty house.
My mother’s online "wellness empire"—which relied heavily on filming videos inside the luxurious, sunlit kitchen of 742 Elmwood Lane—began to collapse within forty-eight hours.
Without access to her pristine background set, and forced to live in a cramped two-bedroom motel on the highway, Mom tried to film a live stream from the motel lobby, claiming she was "taking a minimalist retreat."
Unfortunately for her, the internet moves quickly.
One of my former regional store assistant managers, who was a master at digital research, uncovered Mom’s public court filings regarding her unpaid credit card debts and her long history of tax delinquencies that I had secretly cleared over the past five years.
Anonymous posts began appearing under her Instagram videos, detailing how the "Clean Living Advocate" had spent years living rent-free in a house owned entirely by the son she publicly ridiculed as a fast-food worker.
Within a week, Mom lost three major brand sponsorships. Her follower count plummeted by forty percent.
Meanwhile, Brooke’s online yoga brand fell apart when her subscribers noticed she had stopped releasing content. Without her high-end camera equipment—which was locked inside Westside Storage Facility #4 pending her payment of five thousand dollars in legal storage fees—she was forced to film videos on an old smartphone in the motel parking lot. Her comments section was quickly flooded with jokes calling her "The Burger Queen’s Assistant."
Ethan, unable to access his high-end gaming consoles or his collection of designer sneakers, was forced to apply for work at a local auto body shop. When he asked Dad for a loan to buy a cheap used car, Dad had to break the news to him: there was no money left.
Without my monthly allowance transfers to Dad’s account, my parents’ true financial state was laid bare. Dad’s engineering pension was barely enough to cover their medical insurance and basic groceries. They had lived for six years on the illusion of wealth—an illusion built entirely on my hard work and quiet financial generosity.
One rainy Tuesday afternoon, while sitting in my office at our regional headquarters, my administrative assistant knocked on the door.
“Nathan,” she said hesitantly. “There’s a woman downstairs in the lobby. She doesn't have an appointment, but she says she’s your mother. She’s crying.”
I looked at the sales reports on my laptop, signed a corporate vendor check, and looked up.
“Tell security to give her a cup of coffee and inform her that regional corporate offices are for business inquiries only.”
“Yes, Mr. Carter.”
Ten minutes later, I looked out my second-story office window.
I saw my mother standing in the rain near the parking lot entrance, holding a cheap plastic umbrella, looking up at the high-rise office building with tears streaming down her face.
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For a moment, an old phantom pang of guilt tugged at my heart. But then I remembered the four plates on the New Year’s Eve table. I remembered the cold wind on the front porch while they boarded a luxury cruise.
I pulled the window blinds shut and turned back to my work.
