Chapter 3

"This week's score is out. Listen carefully."

It wasn't the speaker this time. It was a voice memo on Snapchat.

Eleanor sent a file every Sunday night at exactly 8:00 PM. It was an Excel spreadsheet titled: *Weekly Household Performance Report - Week 17.*

Three months ago, when I first started receiving it, there were only three columns: Housekeeping, Meals, and Childcare.

Now, it had expanded to nine.

Housekeeping Completion, Meal Compliance, Childcare Hours, Personal Spending Audit, Weight Fluctuation, Sleep Duration, Location Logs, Call Duration, and Screen Time.

Each column had a letter grade next to it. From A to D.

"Housekeeping: B-minus. On Wednesday afternoon, you only mopped the living room and master bedroom. You skipped the guest bathroom. The camera caught it perfectly."

"Meals: C. You used three pinches of salt on Tuesday, and the chicken on Thursday was slightly overcooked. Go watch the replay yourself."

"Childcare: B. Leo wasn't asleep by 8:30 PM on Thursday. What were you doing? Sitting on the couch scrolling through your phone."

"Personal Spending: D. You spent $38 at the local pharmacy on Saturday for a hand cream. Household allowance is for survival, not for wasting on luxury."

Thirty-eight dollars.

My hands were cracking from the dry winter air. Every time I washed the dishes, the pain was so bad I could barely hold the plates.

"Weight: B. You gained 0.3 pounds compared to last week. Watch your intake."

"Overall Grade: C-plus. I expect to see improvement next week."

Her tone when she said "I expect to see improvement" sounded exactly like an HR director delivering a performance review.

And this spreadsheet wasn't just sent to me.

She dropped it directly into the "Miller Family Group" on Snapchat.

There were twelve people in that group. Brandon, Eleanor, Arthur (who never spoke), Brittany, Brittany's husband Dan, Uncle Robert, Aunt Sarah, Cousin Ryan, Cousin Lily, Aunt Clara, Uncle John, and a distant cousin whose name I couldn't even remember.

Every Sunday night, the spreadsheet was tossed into the group chat like a report card pinned to the classroom wall.

Brittany was always the first to reply: "Chloe went over budget again? A $38 hand cream? I use a $3 tub of Vaseline, and my hands are fine."

Aunt Sarah chimed in right after: "Honestly. Brandon works so hard to support the family on his own."

Aunt Clara sighed: "I told you from the start, Brandon. You should have married a girl who knows how to budget."

Cousin Lily sent a gif of a cat rolling its eyes.

In a group chat of twelve people, not a single person thought this spreadsheet was insane.

No one asked: *By what right are you grading an adult's life?*

No one questioned the new column that had appeared on the sheet last week.

It was labeled: "Bathroom Logs."

*Tuesday morning: Entered at 10:17 AM, exited at 10:29 AM. Duration: 12 minutes.*

*Wednesday night: Entered at 11:42 PM, exited at 11:58 PM. Duration: 16 minutes.*

*Friday morning: Entered at 3:01 AM, exited at 3:19 AM. Duration: 18 minutes.*

There was a note next to it: *Excessive time. Strongly suspect screen-time abuse in the restroom.*

She was tracking my toilet visits.

When Brandon got home that night, I shoved the spreadsheet in front of him.

"Look at this. Do you honestly think this is normal?"

He glanced at it.

"My mom is just helping you organize your life so you can improve. Why are you being so ungrateful?"

"She is tracking how long I use the bathroom, Brandon!"

"Well, aren't you just hiding in there to play on your phone? You wouldn't take that long otherwise."

"I had my period that week! My stomach was hurting!"

"Then tell my mom! How is she supposed to know if you don't tell her?"

"You want me to report my menstrual cycle to your mother?!"

"Why do you have to sound so hostile?" Brandon snapped. "Stop being so paranoid. My mom cares about you. Go ask around—how many mothers-in-law spend $12,000 to upgrade their daughter-in-law's home with smart technology?"

A $12,000 system of "care."

The kind of care that reduced a living human being into a set of data points.

That night, after Leo fell asleep, I went into the bathroom. I turned on the faucet and pulled out my burner phone.

I took screenshots of all seven pages of this week's spreadsheet, recorded Eleanor's voice memos, and saved the family group chat logs. I sent everything to David Vance.

He replied almost instantly:

"This spreadsheet is a form of degrading, psychological micromanagement. Distributing it to a family group chat constitutes collective mental abuse. These are powerful pieces of evidence. Do not alert them. Keep recording."

I hid the phone back behind the toilet tank and turned off the water.

When I walked out, the smart speaker's blue light blinked.

A text from Eleanor popped up on my iPad.

"You were in the bathroom for eleven minutes. Playing on your phone again?"

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