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The kind of smile that gets her another feature inVariety, another invite to the next A-list party, another chance to rewrite her story.

But I know the truth behind that smile.

She doesn’t love children.

She doesn’t even love her own.

She abandoned me the moment I stopped being cute, the second I became too real for her perfect life. The minute I needed her to show up—as a mother, as a person—she vanished. No explanation. No goodbye.

Just gone.

Actually, no. She gave an explanation. I was a burden. My father and I, we were dragging her back. She had a dream. She wanted to become a rich, famous actress. With me hanging on her coattails, it would be impossible. So she left me. Poof. Disappeared. Just gone.

They say love is supposed to be unconditional when it comes from your mother. Supposed to weather your mistakes. Forgive your worst. Hold on through the ugly parts.

But hers had conditions, all of them wrapped in fame, image, and convenience.

I was inconvenient.

So she left.

I slam the laptop shut. Hard.

The sound echoes in the silence of the room.

I lean back in my chair and drag a hand through my hair, gripping the strands like it’ll help me hold something together.

I don’t care what she thinks of me.

Not anymore.

Not the scandals. Not the gossip columns. Not the flings or the red carpet disasters. I’m not doing any of it for her. I’m not secretly hoping she’ll open her phone one morning, see my nameplastered across the headlines, and feel something—regret, guilt, longing.

That ship sailed a long time ago.

I’ve spent too long wrecking myself to get a reaction out of someone who never looked back.

I grab my phone and switch it off.

Cold, final.

I stare at the blank screen for a long second before tossing it onto the couch beside me.

I’m done.

I mean it this time.

No more Megan Hart.

No more trying to prove I mattered once.

No more performing in the hopes she might actually applaud.

She lost her right to care about me a long time ago.

And I’m finally ready to stop caring about her.

Two mornings after, I don’t protest when Brody shows up at my place—suitcase in one hand, Starbucks in the other, wearing that usual smirk that says I know I’m about to deal with a pain in the butt, but I signed up for it anyway.