The Starving Heiress on a Dollar a Day

When my mother pulled her Maybach up to the curb outside the campus dining hall, I was hunched over the corner conveyor belt, scraping someone else’s discarded lunch off a plastic tray.

She snatched the greasy styrofoam box from my fingers and slammed it into the industrial trash can. The sound echoed off the linoleum like a gunshot.

"Have you lost your mind?" Her voice dropped to a harsh, trembling hiss, vibrating with pure fury. "I send you an allowance every single month. And you’re standing here scavenging strangers' scraps? Are you deliberately trying to humiliate me?