Chapter 1: Just a Taste

My mom is unbelievably greedy—she has to sample everything. She’s the kind of woman who’ll sneak a bite off your birthday cake before you’ve even blown out the candles, then laugh like it’s the funniest thing in the world. She even has a saying: "What's wrong with just a taste? Just a tiny bite."

At the bakery, when the cakes were fresh out of the oven, she went up and poked a hole in someone else's cake, smacked her lips, and licked the frosting off her fingers. She’d wheedle every dollar from my wallet for her sweets, and when I finally broke down and told Dad, his palm landed hard and fast. My cheek stung for hours.

Mom's shamelessness is almost legendary in our little town. Sometimes I wonder if there's some world record for the most snacks sampled at grocery stores. At family potlucks, she swipes bites off everyone's plates, laughing like it's all a big joke. That phrase—'just a taste'—was basically her life motto. But at the bakery that day, she didn't just taste. She straight up vandalized someone's celebration cake and looked proud of it. I swear, she could've had her own reality show: "America's Most Brazen Snackers."

"You've crossed the line! Your mom said you wasted all your allowance and come home every day just to mooch, making her go hungry!"

His face was red, and he didn't even try to listen—just repeated what my mom had said, as if every word from her mouth was gospel. Sometimes I wondered if he even knew me at all, or if he'd already picked his side a long time ago.

"You think I don't know how you usually treat your mom? She told me everything!"

His voice echoed through our cramped kitchen. It was like being on trial, except nobody was on my side. The smell of overcooked casserole hung in the air, and even the fridge seemed to hum with disapproval.

I was overwhelmed with frustration, but finally, a turning point came before the SATs. My dad mysteriously brought home a palm-sized turtle.

It was the most random thing, like those infomercials that promise instant wealth if you just buy some weird gadget. He walked in, clutching the little box like it held a winning lottery ticket. The cardboard was damp from his grip, and I could smell the sharp tang of pet store sawdust. I remember thinking: please let this be a good sign for once.

"This is a rare breed I bought with a $17,000 loan."

He grinned like he'd just snagged the last PlayStation on Black Friday. $17,000! My jaw actually dropped. I didn't even know our family had access to that much credit.

"And this turtle is already pregnant—it's about to lay eggs."

He was practically bouncing in his sneakers, whispering the secret like we were plotting a heist. I didn't have the heart to point out that you can't always tell if a turtle's pregnant just by wishful thinking.

"Once it has a bunch of baby turtles, I'll sell the big one and make money both ways!"

I stared at him, half-expecting him to start selling me on a pyramid scheme next. All I could see was that turtle, looking as confused as I felt.

"I know a buyer who's coming in a few days and will give me $22,000 on the spot!"

He beamed, pulling me into his big scheme. For a split second, his hope was infectious. But then I remembered: hope is dangerous in our house.

I looked at the turtle, then at the pot. A few days ago, my mom had just stewed my two pet turtles and said she hadn't had enough to eat. My dad, who never believed my mom was a glutton, was about to be in big trouble.

The memory flashed behind my eyes—Mom dropping my pets into a boiling pot, acting like it was just another Tuesday. Dad had never believed me when I tried to tell him. Now, with his "investment" turtle sitting on the counter, I felt a wicked sort of anticipation. Karma was finally coming home to roost, and for once, I wouldn't be the one left holding the empty bag.