My NEET Daughter

My name is Linda Lincoln. I'm fifty years old and work in interior design. I worked tirelessly to raise my daughter, Vivian Lincoln, all the way through university graduation, thinking I could finally breathe a sigh of relief. But to my surprise, barely two months after Vivian got her diploma, she said she was depressed and couldn't go to work. And she stayed at home like that—for five years. To get her treatment, I took her to countless hospitals and even asked friends to find over a hundred psychological experts. Yet every doctor gave the same verdict: Vivian Lincoln was perfectly healthy, with no psychological disorders. I sat on the carpet in her room, holding back the ache in my chest as I asked her why she was pretending to be sick. She turned away from the makeup mirror, threw the lipstick onto the table, and shoved all the blame onto me. "Isn't it because of you? You never bought me a villa, never got me a luxury car, and didn't set up a big company for me to inherit." In a burst of anger, she raised her hand and slapped me. "Mom, if you couldn't give me the life I wanted, you shouldn't have fought for custody against Dad in the first place!" My cheek burned fiercely, but what hurt more was the chill in my heart. I covered my burning cheek and dug out a phone number I hadn't dialed in twenty years. The call connected, and I tried to keep my voice steady: "Mike Carter, when are you free? Come pick up your daughter." There was a pause on the other end, then a playful, smirking voice said, "Hey, Linda? What's up, Vivian misses me already?" I had no patience to joke with him, so I hung up. Turning around, I caught Vivian Lincoln's expectant gaze. "Your dad's been busy lately; he'll come pick you up on the fifteenth of next month." I lied. Vivian jumped up from her chair, waving her arms excitedly: "Yeah! I can finally escape this poor life and live like a heiress!" I've struggled for almost thirty years. Though I can't compete with real tycoons, the life I've provided for Vivian is definitely not bad. We live in a 180-square-meter riverside apartment and drive a car worth over four hundred thousand. From her food and clothes to all her expenses growing up, everything has been from mid-to-high-end brands. From elementary through high school, she attended prestigious private schools. When she didn't do well on her college entrance exam, I spent over 800,000 sending her abroad for her undergraduate studies. I just can't understand how she could see a life like this as "a poor life." "Vivian, why are you so eager about wanting to live with your dad?" I couldn't help but ask. Without thinking twice, she answered, "Because my dad has money!" As she spoke, she opened a video on her phone and showed it to me. In the footage, Mike Carter was arm-in-arm with a woman in a dress, entering and leaving the same five-star hotel multiple times—eighteen times in total. They were very close, chatting and laughing, looking deeply intimate. "Where did you get this video?" I asked with a frown. Vivian Lincoln smiled smugly, "My high school classmate, Harry Clark, went on a trip and happened to stay at the same hotel as my dad. He recorded it and sent it to me." "I looked into it—the woman by my dad's side is called Lily Scott. She's the boss of Lily Group, a company with over ten thousand employees!" "She lives in a huge mansion spanning several thousand square meters, and she owns so many luxury cars you can't even count them all." She glanced at me with pure disdain in her voice: "Your car is just the kind a nanny would drive to buy groceries. The cars she personally uses are worth at least ten million." "And that hotel she frequently goes to—I'm sure she bought it and gave it to my dad!" "Once I live with my dad, I'll be Lily Scott's stepdaughter. As long as I behave well, her fortune will sooner or later be mine!" Watching Vivian's yearning for the wealthy elite, all I can say is, she's far too naive.