Chapter 2: The Rival Returns

Samantha Young came back to Georgia last month, and suddenly all of Savannah’s social scene was abuzz. Nobody ever really believed in my parents’ story—the golden boy of Savannah’s elite chasing after a fishmonger’s daughter, making a spectacle, shaking up the whole city. Outsiders assumed he was just slumming it. But Dad stuck with it for years, marrying Mom into the family. Still, the whispers and sighs never stopped.

In Savannah, old money gossips over porch swings and bourbon. I’d heard Samantha Young’s name a million times from the grown-ups—always in the same wistful tone. They said Dad should’ve married her and had a smart, beautiful child. Not like me, who was as wild as a raccoon. I remembered the time I climbed the neighbor’s magnolia and came home covered in mud, Mom laughing as she hosed me off on the porch. In their minds, Samantha was the real Southern belle—stunning, composed. The last time she came back, she lit up the room.

My mom is like a quiet violet, gentle and unnoticed, while Samantha’s a rose—flashy, sharp, dismissive, and rude. After returning, she visited; Grandma led her upstairs for a tour. She broke my mom’s favorite vase. I ran over—I saw her do it on purpose. I shouted, “This is my house, get out!”

The shards scattered across the hardwood, catching the afternoon sun like bits of broken oyster shell. I stood there, fists clenched, heart thumping like I’d sprinted the length of Forsyth Park.

She crouched down, her smile never reaching her eyes. “Very soon, it won’t be.”

Her words hung in the air, sticky and cold, as if plucked from a twisted fairy tale. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, daring me to challenge her.

Her tone was so certain. I didn’t get it. “What are you really here for?”

She leaned in, voice just for me: “To steal your dad.”

I didn’t believe her. Dad loved Mom so much, he would’ve taken a bullet for her. They were always close—hugging, kissing. Mom’s clothes were ugly, but Dad adored them. She could wear a potato sack and he’d still call her an angel. No matter how busy, he never stayed out overnight.

The memory warmed me for a moment. I remembered how Dad would sneak my mom flowers from the market, stuffing them in her coat pocket, or how he’d dance with her in the kitchen, even when there was no music playing.

Samantha patted my head. “Little trash bug, just watch. Tonight, your dad won’t want you anymore.”

She strutted out, hips swinging. I called Dad on my Apple Watch. He always doted on me and smiled, “Tomorrow’s your mom’s birthday. After I finish up, I’ll start my vacation tonight.”

He never forgot birthdays—cake from that little bakery on Broughton Street, presents wrapped in newspaper comics. I felt relieved. Thinking of Samantha, she really was some kind of witch. She asked if I knew what “white whale” and “childhood sweetheart” meant. I didn’t want to know. But that night, Dad didn’t come home. I called him. He didn’t answer.

The minutes crawled by, the house too quiet. I watched headlights crawl across my bedroom ceiling, hoping one would finally be his.