Accidentally Famous

A mom's accidental fame becomes her teenage daughter's worst nightmare.

Abigail flounces through the door and slams it with all the drama that only a thirteen-year-old girl can generate. She throws her backpack on the floor and yells up the stairs.

“Mo-oooooom!”

I roll my eyes. These are our afternoons now.

I remember the days when my sweet little girl would burst through the door eager to tell me all about her school day, bug me about a snack before dinner and demand a report on what our dog, Alfred the Third, did in her absence.

No more. Now it’s all eye-rolling and door-slamming, neither of which is my favorite.

Taking a deep breath, I head to the top of the stairs and look down. Abigail stands there, furious, holding out her phone like evidence.

“Yes, honey?”

It’s been a typical day for me. Grocery shopping after dropping Abigail off at middle school, then her younger brother Geoff, then home to start laundry and take a stab at cleaning the perpetual messes left behind by both kids and the dog, as well as trying to meet my writing deadline.

“I could just DIE. How could you?!”

Perplexed, I take a couple of steps down.

“What happened? Bad day at school?”

Was there an email from a teacher that I haven’t seen yet? Did we miss an assignment deadline? With Abigail and all her teen drama, it could be anything.

“You ONLY made this the WORST DAY of my life!”

Her face is bright red. Her curly auburn hair bounces around her head as if electrified by sheer outrage.

“I am NEVER going back.”

Cupcakes? Was there a PTA function I missed? I didn’t miss a soccer game snack run. This I know for sure.

My descent slows, hesitant to be sucked into the drama.

“Tell me.”

I keep my voice gentle, as if she’s a rabid dog thisclose to taking off my arm.

“UGH! You can’t even--! UGH. Just NO!”

She jabs at her screen. Singing starts.

Abigail thrusts the phone at me.

It takes a few seconds to recognize it.

That’s my voice.

Singing.

My face immediately turns red to match hers.

This morning’s grocery run. I’d been standing in a long checkout line, minding my own business while everyone else stared at their phones.

The singing ends.

I hold out my hand.

“Give it here.”

I can tell she doesn’t want to, but she finally does.

I replay the clip.

Yep. There I am. Yoga pants, messy bun, cart full of groceries. Not only am I singing “Mary Had a Little Lamb,” I’m doing a few dance steps as well.

Great.

“You SEE? How could YOU?” Abigail snatches the phone back.

“Where did that come from? Who posted it?”

Pointless questions, but I’m trying to gather the shredded remnants of my dignity.

“I Don’t Know. It just—it’s all OVER!”

She squints at the screen through humiliated tears.

“Twelve million views. Mo-OOOOM!”

Twelve million. I’m no expert on viral videos, but I know that every view is going to feel like torture to her.

What would I have done if something like this had happened to me when I was thirteen?

Run away, probably.

We didn’t have TikTok back then. We barely had flip phones. But being embarrassed by your parents is timeless, no matter the source.

“I’m sorry, honey. I didn’t know—why would anyone do this?”

Another useless question. Why does anyone post anything?

Exhausted, Abigail sits on the stair below me, leaning her head against my leg.

I stroke her hair gently, glad she’s letting me comfort her.

I’m not up for Mother of the Year in her eyes today, but at least she knows we’ll weather the storm together. It’s something I hope she never forgets.

A few minutes later, the front door opens again.

In bounds eight-year-old Geoff, followed by my husband.

“MOM!”

Geoff beams up at us.

“You’re famous!”

Uh-oh.

“UGH!”

Abigail launches herself upstairs, slamming her bedroom door hard enough to rattle the walls.

“What’s with her?” Geoff asks innocently.

He’s used to his sister’s drama and canny enough to know that this will distract us. Before I can answer, he disappears into the den, no doubt heading to play a video game.

“Abigail, huh?”

I look up from my hands. My husband’s standing there with his hands in his pockets, leaning against the wall like this is any other day.

“She went ballistic. Worst Mom Ever, apparently.”

I’ll take dinner up later. Try to talk to her. All the usual things.

Brad starts up the stairs. As he passes, he kisses the top of my head, quietly humming the opening bars of “Mary Had a Little Lamb,” then keeps going.

Laughing despite myself, I head downstairs to collect the abandoned backpacks and start dinner, idly wondering if this might someday become a meme.

***
804 words

This is an entry for Writer's Cramp. Prompt: You are singing an old song from your childhood and don't notice that you are filmed by a bystander, who puts the clip on Tiktok.
It goes viral. What happens next?