Chapter 3: Instagram Scandal

The next day, Savannah was ablaze with news: the golden boy of Savannah caught kissing the Young family’s daughter. It blew up on Instagram. I watched as Mom’s eyes silently turned red. Sometimes, I wished she could talk, so she could roast people with me.

She just sat there, lips pressed tight, scrolling through the comments with trembling hands. Her hands shook so hard she nearly dropped the phone, her breath coming in shallow bursts. There were memes, hashtags, mean jokes. I wanted to grab her phone and toss it in the river. Since that night, Dad barely came home. Then came the car accident, the amnesia, and Dad forgetting Mom and me. In the hospital room, all kinds of nasty words rained down on Mom. Dad showed no emotion at all.

Before, when Grandma called Mom a hen who couldn’t give him a son at the dinner table, Dad flipped the table and took us home. How could things be like this now? I wanted to cry. Dad and Mom were going to get divorced. I’d better stay with Mom. She can’t speak; she’ll get pushed around.

I made a silent promise to myself to always be her voice—no matter what happened, I wouldn’t let her stand alone.

“Alex.” Samantha drank in all our embarrassment. After watching long enough, she finally entered. Dad gave a faint “mm.”

Her perfume filled the room like a warning. She tossed her hair, lips parted in that practiced smile. It made my skin crawl.

Uncle Jeff’s family arrived next. Their spoiled son was carried in on someone’s shoulders, kicking and yelling. He spotted the cake on the bedside table. “I want cake! I want cake!” That was the cake Dad bought for me yesterday. I was afraid he’d get hungry, so I brought it to the hospital.

The kid’s voice echoed, louder than the beeping machines. The nurses exchanged looks—everyone in town knew Jeff’s boy was a terror.

The spoiled kid was set down and went to grab the cake. I looked at Dad, pleading. He looked bored, raised a finger, and pinched his brow. “Let him have it.”

His voice was cold, like I was just another nuisance. My heart twisted. The cake was all I had left from him.

I folded my arms, pouting. “I don’t want to. Dad, I hate you.”

They all acted like it was the funniest thing ever and burst out laughing. “No one likes you anyway.”

Their laughter was sharp, bouncing off the hospital walls. I felt myself shrinking, but I refused to let them see me cry.

Samantha said, “This cake is gross. Auntie will take you to buy a better one.”

The spoiled kid raised his chin and said, “Okay.” He smashed my cake on the ground, chin high. The frosting splattered across my shoes, the smell of vanilla and disappointment rising up. “Hope you like crumbs, loser.”

It seemed like the Foster family never acknowledged me. I was the daughter of a fishmonger—and a girl, at that. But this, I couldn’t stand. I rushed over and slapped him.

My hand stung, but it felt right. The kid’s eyes went wide, his face crumpling as if no one had ever touched him before.

Uncle Jeff’s face turned dark, and he kicked at me. “You little brat.”

In the past, only Dad protected us. Now even he had forgotten. My body felt light, but the pain I expected didn’t come. Mr. Lewis quickly picked me up and put me in Mom’s arms. His grip was gentle but his jaw was tight, like he wanted to say something but couldn’t. Dad’s voice came, hiding his anger. “Too loud. Get the extras out of here.”

He meant me and Mom. Mom didn’t cry, just quietly held my hand. When we got downstairs, we realized it was raining. Rainwater trickled down my neck, Mom’s umbrella wobbling as she tried to shield me, her own shoulder soaked through. We walked home, thunder rumbling behind us like the Foster family’s scorn.