Live Stream Lies, Undercover Ties

1 My daughter is pathologically righteous. When her male classmate accidentally bumped her elbow while doing his homework, she reported him to the principal. He was forced to transfer schools. When a male teacher was tutoring a female student after class, she snapped a picture, posted it on the school’s online forum, and accused them of having an affair. The teacher was fired. I tried to reason with her, my voice tight with frustration, but she was defiant. “Mom,” she’d said, her chin jutted out, “men and women should keep their distance. I won’t tolerate any indecency, not from anyone.” “Not even from the people I love most.” Last night, I worked late again. My colleague, Mark, gave me a ride home. The next morning, I was a trending topic. A picture, taken from a deliberately misleading angle, was plastered all over the internet. The comments were a tidal wave of vitriol. And there was my daughter, livestreaming from the living room. “Mom,” she said, her voice cool and steady for her online audience, “this time, you need to learn your lesson. With the whole world watching, maybe you’ll finally learn to behave.” My heart sank. With her twisted sense of right and wrong, she was systematically destroying my life. But what she didn’t know… Was that “Mark,” the man who drove me home, was her father. An undercover agent working on a top-secret international case. I stepped out of my front door and was met with a barrage of hostile stares. My neighbors, who usually greeted me with a friendly wave, now looked at me with a mixture of disgust and suspicion. Before I could even attempt an explanation, a text from my office pinged on my phone. Human Resources was “gently suggesting” I take the day off. Defeated, I turned back home. The moment I opened the door, a phone was shoved in my face. Dahlia’s eyes were cold, her voice like ice. “Hey everyone,” she said to her livestream, “this is my mom. She has a thing for late-night dates with strange men. And she’s always leaving me home alone.” I looked at her, and it was like seeing a stranger. The daughter I had raised was gone, replaced by this cold, judgmental creature who spoke of me with utter contempt. The number of viewers on her stream was climbing. Fueled by her narrative, the comments poured in. “What a sad excuse for a mother. Only cares about her own pleasure.” “She looks like a slut. I knew she was no good.” “Damn, she’s still got it though. Hey, send me her number!” The vile words echoed in my ears. Dahlia followed me, a relentless shadow with a camera, documenting my every move. “My mom can’t control herself,” she narrated. “To make sure she doesn’t run off with another man, I’ll be livestreaming her 24/7. Please, join me in keeping her accountable.” I went to the kitchen; she followed. I went to the bathroom; she was right behind me. I snapped. I grabbed the phone and threw it across the room. “Dahlia, have I been too lenient with you? Have you completely lost your mind? The bathroom is a private space! Are you really going to film me in here?” She calmly picked up her phone and blocked the bathroom door with her body. “If you’ve done nothing wrong, you have nothing to hide. What are you so afraid of?” “Mom,” she said, her voice devoid of emotion, “I’m going to watch your every move. I’m going to make you repent.” The daughter I had raised for over a decade now looked at me with the eyes of an enemy. I couldn’t hold back my anger any longer. I raised my hand to slap her. She didn’t even flinch. She just leaned in closer. “Go ahead,” she challenged. “The whole world is watching. If you hit me, it’s child abuse. It’s domestic violence.” “And I’ll have all the evidence I need to give to the police.” I was speechless. My home, once a sanctuary, now felt like a prison, suffocating me. I couldn’t stand to be there another second. I slammed the door and left. On the street, the stares of strangers felt like needles in my back. Their whispers followed me. “You’d never guess by looking at her, but she’s that kind of woman.” “Her own daughter exposed her. She must be a prostitute.” “Stay away from her. Who knows what diseases she’s carrying.” I felt like a turtle, retreating into my shell, my head bowed in shame. I spent the night at my best friend’s place. She tried to console me, telling me Dahlia would grow out of it, that she would understand one day. But my heart ached. She used to be such a sweet, clever little girl, always clinging to me, begging for cuddles. How had she become this monster? When I returned home the next day, the house was full of strangers. They were a cleaning crew, hired by Dahlia. She emerged from the living room, a frown on her face. “Mom, with your… lifestyle, you could be bringing all sorts of germs into the house. I’m having the place disinfected.” The air was thick with the acrid smell of some industrial-strength cleaning agent. The new wallpaper I had just put up was already stained and discolored. Rage boiled up inside me. I snatched the spray bottle from one of the workers and threw it to the ground. “What do you think you’re doing? Get out! All of you, get out of my house!” Dahlia stepped in front of them, a human shield. “I hired them. They’re providing a service. Until we’re sure you’re not carrying any diseases, you have no right to make them leave.” The cleaning crew muttered amongst themselves. “That Dahlia is such a good kid. How did she end up with a mother like that?” “Exactly! It’s people like her who spread diseases, and she won’t even let us disinfect!” “This is infuriating. That poor girl.” Their whispers were a chorus of condemnation, all centered on my supposed promiscuity. And Dahlia just stood there, her face impassive, as they methodically destroyed my home.

2 The next day, I planned to go to my office and explain everything to my boss. But before I could even rehearse my speech, I got a call from Dahlia’s school. “Mrs. Dalton, we need you to come to the school immediately.” The principal’s grim tone told me it was serious. When I arrived, I found out that Dahlia had accused me of collecting “inappropriate materials” that were having a “negative impact on her mental and emotional well-being.” The teachers in the office stared at me, their eyes like daggers. I walked up to my daughter, my voice shaking with disbelief. “I’m your mother!” I almost screamed. “Why are you doing this to me? What inappropriate materials? Show them to me!” Dahlia’s expression was unnervingly calm. She reached into her backpack and pulled out my old physiology textbook from when I was studying for my medical license, along with a few copies of a women’s magazine I liked. The textbook had been on my desk for years. The magazines were a guilty pleasure, a bit of nostalgia. She flipped through the textbook to the chapter on the reproductive system, the pages filled with detailed anatomical diagrams. She handed it to the school administrators, her voice ringing with the authority of a prosecutor. “Mom, can you honestly say this is a normal book? It has explicit drawings of private body parts.” The administrators, despite their education, flushed with embarrassment. She wasn’t done. She opened the magazines. I had to admit, the headlines were a bit sensationalized, but I kept them tucked away, out of sight. Dahlia, like a triumphant rooster, continued to list my crimes. “Mom, because of your promiscuous lifestyle, I’ve decided to post your professional license and your ID online. As a warning to others.” The school administrators tried to intervene. “Dahlia, I’m sure your mother didn’t mean any harm.” “She knows she was wrong now. Let’s just let it go, okay? Let her go home and reflect.” “Mrs. Dalton, what do you say? We can just forget about posting your information online.” Until now, the humiliation had been mostly anonymous. The pictures she’d posted were blurry, and not everyone was terminally online. But this… posting my official documents, my professional license, my ID… it would be social suicide. Every parent at her school, everyone at my job… they would all know. It would be like walking around naked. Before I could answer, my phone rang. It was my niece. “Auntie, why is Dahlia at my office? She’s demanding they fire me!” The world went black for a second. My niece had just passed her probationary period at her new government job. “How did you even find your cousin’s office?” I demanded. Dahlia sneered. “Last month, I saw her holding hands with a man on the street. It was disgusting. A person like that has no place working in public service.” I was shaking with rage. My niece was a grown woman. It was perfectly normal for her to be dating. “Dahlia, your cousin is in a perfectly normal relationship! Holding hands is not a crime!” I shouted. “You’re going to ruin her life!” She just tilted her head back. “Improper conduct is a serious matter. I don’t care what she does, but if I see it, I will report it. I have zero tolerance for immorality.” I was so angry I could barely breathe. I had to spend the rest of the day smoothing things over with my niece’s boss, promising it would never happen again. After that incident, my brother and his wife cut off all contact with us.

3 My information went up on all the major websites anyway. My clearest photos, my full name, my elementary school, my high school, my place of work, even my department. My address was posted, too. I was put on a digital pillory. My every move was documented and dissected. The word “slut” was permanently attached to my name. My office quickly found out. The online rumors spread like wildfire, each new version more exaggerated than the last. Tabloid reporters and clout-chasers camped outside my house. My phone was inundated with obscene text messages. “Hey beautiful, how much for a night? Can I book you for tonight?” And calls, from a rotating cast of blocked numbers. “I sent you a text, you bitch! Stop playing hard to get! How much? I’ve got the money!” I would scream at them to leave me alone, throwing my phone across the room, but I could still hear their jeers. “What a whore! Pretending to be all high and mighty. Her own daughter said she sells her body!” I was too afraid to look at my phone, too afraid to go online. I became a prisoner in my own home. I tried to talk to her, to reason with her. “Dahlia, I’m not seeing anyone. It was late, I couldn’t get a cab, and Uncle Mark gave me a ride.” She turned to look at me, her eyes like poisoned darts. “Hmph. I’d rather you didn’t come home at all than have a man bring you. You say you were working late. But who knows what you were really doing.” Her insinuation hung in the air, thick and venomous. My voice trembled with rage. “What was I doing, Dahlia?” Faced with my hysteria, her expression remained chillingly calm. “You don’t have to ask me. You know what you did.” I took a deep breath, trying to quell the fire in my chest. She was still my daughter. Deep down, I still loved her. I pulled out our old family photo album. A happy, loving family. A sweet, adorable Dahlia. I never could have imagined she would turn into this. Back then, Mark hadn’t yet taken on this deep-cover case. Three years ago, he had to change his name, his entire identity, for this international operation. Her father was her hero, the person she admired most in the world. I tried to appeal to that love. “Dahlia, look. Look how happy we were. Your dad should be back next year. The first thing we’ll do is take a new family photo.” She snatched the photo from my hand, took a pair of scissors, and cut my image out of it. She carefully placed the picture of just her and her father back in the album and gently wiped it with a soft cloth. She gave me a cold look, her voice low but sharp as a razor. “You don’t deserve to talk about him.”

4 To be spoken to with such venom by the child I had nurtured and loved… it was like being flayed alive. She continued, her voice flat, her words designed to inflict maximum pain. “Mom, Dad would be so disappointed to see you like this.” “Dad is a hero. It’s been 223 days since he left. When he comes back, we’ll never be apart again. As for you… you can go wherever you want. I feel dirty just being near someone with your loose morals.” Before he took this case, our life was sweet. Mark doted on Dahlia, treated her like a princess. She was always the proudest kid in her class because her dad was a cop. But when duty called, he didn’t hesitate. Dahlia cried for three days and three nights when he left. But because of the sensitive nature of his mission, we couldn’t tell her the truth. The people he was after were ruthless. If his cover was blown, our entire family would be in mortal danger. Because we couldn’t explain why he left, Dahlia jumped to her own conclusion: that our marriage was falling apart. She had asked me countless times. “Mom, are you having an affair? Is that why Dad left?” And every time, I would give her the same answer. “Dad is on a very important assignment. He’ll be back as soon as he’s done.” She was skeptical, but she would count the days, waiting for his return. But the case was complex, with international ties, and the timeline kept getting extended. Dahlia stopped believing me. She became convinced that I had cheated on him, that I had driven him away. Looking at her familiar yet alien face, my heart sank. I demanded that she take down all the posts about me. She didn’t argue, and for a moment, I thought I had gotten through to her, that her conscience had finally kicked in. The next day, I realized how wrong I was. The situation was infinitely worse. They had doxxed Mark. It was his undercover name, but it was still him. The post was vile. [Undercover agent Mark Dalton caught in late-night tryst with married woman. This is a disgrace to the force. We demand an official explanation.] They had tagged the local government’s official account. And they had included a picture of him, a clear shot of his profile. The moment I saw it, my blood ran cold. The whole reason he had changed his name was because he had made too many enemies in his line of work. Exposing him like this was a death sentence. I ran to find my daughter. “Take that post down! Right now! Take it down!” A smirk played on her lips. “What’s the matter? Worried about your lover? You two were on a late-night date. If I won’t tolerate it from you, what makes you think I’ll let him get away with it?” Every minute that post was up, his life was in more danger. People in the comments were already trying to dig up more information on him. My voice was shaking. “Do whatever you want to me! I won’t fight you! Just please, take down the post about Mark! I’m begging you!” She just laughed. “Still denying it? You did something disgusting, just admit it! Here’s the deal: you post a public statement online confessing that you’re a whore, that you cheated on Dad and drove him away, and that you’re sorry. Post it for three days straight. Then, maybe I’ll consider your request.” Tears streamed down my face, my heart twisting in agony. But for Mark’s sake, I did as she asked. After that, my life was completely ruined. I couldn’t take public transport. Going to the grocery store became an ordeal. My job had already sent me a termination letter. I was a puppet, trapped in my bedroom. But when I thought of Mark, it felt worth it. His case was at a critical juncture. We couldn’t afford any mistakes. I had asked him before if we should just tell Dahlia the truth, but he had insisted it was too dangerous. He said that as soon as the case was closed and the criminals were behind bars, we would explain everything to her, and she would understand. I realize now how naive we were to have faith in her. One day, I was scrolling through the news and saw it. Dahlia had taken down the online post. But she had printed it out as a flyer and was handing it out to people on the street. The moment I saw it, I ran out of the house to stop her. My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic prayer repeating in my head: Please let him be okay. Please let him be okay. When I found her, she was as defiant as ever, methodically handing out the last of her flyers. A small crowd had gathered, curiously reading the papers in their hands. A few had been dropped, scattered by the wind. The scene drove me mad. “Stop it! Dahlia, stop!” But she ignored me, launching into a detailed account of my “crimes” for the curious onlookers. I didn’t care anymore. I lunged forward, trying to snatch the flyers from her hand. We grappled, a messy, undignified scuffle. She grabbed my hair, pulling hard, refusing to let go. I don’t know how long we fought before my phone rang. It was Mark’s unit. My worst fear had come true. My hand was trembling so hard I could barely answer the phone. It felt like it weighed a thousand pounds. “Ma’am, it’s about Agent Dalton. There’s been an incident.” I was too late.