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My house was never really a home

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My house was never really a home. It was a TV set.

The Harrison House is famously decadent, a lavish gated mansion with a huge serpentine staircase with a wrought iron balustrade. A crystal chandelier hangs from the vaulted ceiling above marble floors. While standing in the great room, you can see part of my mother's opulent sitting room, where she spent much of her time entertaining and drinking, as well as the shimmering glass doors that lead outside to a grassy rolling backyard with a crystal clear Olympic sized swimming pool and a tennis court. The grounds are surrounded by a perimeter of shaped trees where I would often hide when I wanted to get away from my mother's eye line. My mother bought this house when she agreed to star in a reality show, Queen of Heartbreak, and moved us from the east coast to Beverly Hills. Much of my childhood was spent in this very room, with cameramen dancing around on the marble floor like mice. But when I arrive today, there is no one there. No crew. No cameras. No giant lights. No fuzzy boom microphones. No wires all over the floor. It's quiet.

You see, my life is the life dreams are made of... except there are cameras filming everything I do and people debating my every move. My mother is the infamous Adelaide Harrison-- 110 pounds of extensions, botox, and vendetta after she found out that her hottie boytoy fiance was running a Ponzi scheme behind her back and screwing over her coterie of rich east coast friends with full names made up entirely of surnames. He was arrested at their wedding. That made her a media-drenched social pariah. She then adopted me. When I was a kid, she decided to do a reality show to try to make you forget all that. And I grew up on that show and then on my Instagram and my Snapchat and my YouTube channel, and you all watched the story she wanted to tell you. I have been obedient to my mother's every whim, her every idea, following every order she made of me in her determination to make me the most followed girl on the internet.

But I'm over that now.

"She's pouty today," reports my mother's long-time personal assistant Sarah as she looms in the entrance way to warn me of my mother's mood. "I'll check if she'll see you."

I inhale sharply. My relationship with my mother has gone completely sub-zero because traitor that I am, I decided I wanted to go to college in NYC, which screwed up her plans for me to shoot a spin-off series about me going to college in California, along with several brand deals and a new fashion line to add to my previous fashion lines, a sunglasses line, and my own beauty brand. When I told my mother, she took it very maturely by calling her lawyer. Her lawyer informed her that she had no contractual way to force me to do anything. I was still 17, a minor still for over a month, and I could legally void my contracts. I spent the rest of the summer in France just to avoid her. I have only returned for a day to pack up some clothes and try to get my mother to chill, not an easy feat when you're dealing with the pettiest human on earth.

And now her assistant is looking at me like she is fully over my existence. "You do realize you've created quite a mess, young lady," she says, her hands across her chest. Sarah is tall and broad-shouldered and perhaps the only person in my mother's entourage who doesn't have a face paralyzed from Botox.

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