Chapter 2: Viral Shame and Missing Truths

Panicked, I bought a bus ticket and texted my boss. I had to get home.

I barely remember packing. My hands just moved on their own.

The bus ride dragged on forever.

I didn’t sleep. Just stared out the window, waiting for morning.

I found her at the kitchen table, nursing a cup of coffee gone cold. She looked exhausted.

She told me, "When I picked up the package, the plastic bag was torn. The mailroom guy said maybe rats got into it."

I pictured the cluttered mailroom in our building, boxes stacked haphazardly. It always smelled like cardboard.

"The box looked fine, so I just took it home."

She kept wringing her hands, like she was trying to convince herself.

"After your uncle and the others left last night, I went to confront the mailroom guy, but he accused me of trying to scam him."

Her eyes shone with anger and embarrassment.

I squeezed her hand. "It’s okay, Mom."

I rubbed her back, whispering, "We’ll figure this out."

I tucked the battered package under my arm and headed downstairs, jaw set.

The mailroom guy leaned against the counter, scrolling. He barely glanced up.

"Kid, the package was fine when you picked it up. Now you’re bringing it back after signing for it? What do you want me to do?"

Same old attitude.

He just shrugged, like he couldn’t care less.

"Maybe you’re just trying to pull a fast one."

He smirked, not even bothering to hide it.

"How do you even know what I make?"

He still didn’t look up.

He shoved his phone in my face.

The dinner at my house last night had been posted on TikTok for everyone in town to see. The title read:

"Young guy with a $1,500 salary buys his mom a Mother’s Day gift, gets roasted for pretending, designer box stuffed with a chrysanthemum."

The comments were savage.

I asked him to send me the video.

He tapped his screen, sending it over.

My phone blew up with notifications.

I uploaded screenshots, receipts, tracking numbers—anything to prove I wasn’t lying.

"This is on you, not me."

I stared him down, daring him to say otherwise.

People started gathering.

"Maybe your mom swapped it out herself."

"If I was going to steal, I wouldn’t make it this obvious."

"Look around—does this place look like I’d risk my job?"

"Go call the delivery company. Not my problem."

I wasn’t letting this go.

I paced the hall, phone pressed to my ear.

Every stop, the package looked fine.

I shoved my phone in his face, showing the photos.

"Got nothing to say now?"

"Just pull up the footage."

"Let’s just see who came in."

He glanced at the crowd, sweating.

A woman in a Red Sox hoodie tapped her foot, grumbling. The crowd pressed in, impatient.

"Packages always go missing here."

Heads nodded all around.

People started telling their own stories.

He finally gave in.

He led me behind the counter.

The monitor flickered, static everywhere.

He seemed nervous.

He muttered, not meeting my eyes.

I shot him a look.

I forced myself to watch.

It was hard to make out faces.

She lingered, looking nervous.

My stomach dropped.

She walked in, clutching a flower.

Her dress was smudged, hair a mess.

The mailroom went dead quiet.

I recognized her right away.