I put my phone face down on the table.
“Is everything okay?” Mrs. Miller asked, touching my hand.
“Better than okay,” I said. “They’re watching.”
By the time we finished dessert, the video had hit a million views. A local news station had shared it. It was a feel-good story about community support, but everyone in our small town knew the subtext. Everyone knew the Harts were in Mexico.
My parents were being roasted alive in the court of public opinion. People who knew them—neighbors, church members, co-workers—were commenting.
“Wait, isn’t that the Harts’ daughter? Where’s Stan and Linda?”
“I saw Linda post a picture from Cabo yesterday.”
“They skipped it. Wow, just wow.”
My dad left a voicemail. I listened to it in the bathroom. His voice sounded panicked.
“Audrey, pick up. This is a misunderstanding. You need to post something clarifying that we are away for a family emergency. People are saying terrible things on your mother’s Facebook. Fix this.”
A family emergency. He wanted me to lie. He wanted me to cover for them again. He wanted me to be the good daughter who cleaned up their mess.
I looked at myself in the bathroom mirror. I thought about the rusty bike. I thought about the science fair. I thought about the empty seat at the dinner table.
I deleted the voicemail. I walked back out to the table.
“Ready to go?” I asked the Millers.
“Ready?” Mr. Miller said. “We’re so proud of you, Audrey.”
“I know,” I said. “I finally know what that feels like.”
My parents cut their trip short. They flew back 2 days early. I guess it’s hard to relax on the beach when your entire social circle is calling you a deadbeat parent.
I was at my apartment packing up my things to move to the city for my new job. I heard a car door slam outside, then heavy footsteps on the stairs, then banging on my door.
“Audrey, open this door.”
It was my dad.
I opened the door. They were standing there: Mom, Dad, and Chloe. They looked sunburnt and furious. They pushed past me into the living room.
“Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” Mom screamed. She wasn’t asking how I was. She was shaking a printed screenshot of the viral video at me. “I can’t even go to the grocery store. Mrs. Gable commented on my post asking if I enjoyed abandoning my child. It’s a PR nightmare. You made us look like monsters.”
Kloe chimed in. She was scrolling on her phone.
“Someone found my Instagram and commented, ‘Selfish sister.’ You need to delete your account, Audrey.”
I stood by the kitchen island. I didn’t offer them water. I didn’t offer them a seat.
“I didn’t post the video,” I said calmly. “Strangers did.”
“But you set it up,” Dad yelled. His face was red. “You gave the dean the Millers’ names. You erased us.”
“You erased yourselves,” I said. My voice was quiet, but it cut through their shouting. “You booked the trip, Dad. You chose the resort. You told me to my face that you had other plans.”
“We are your parents,” Mom cried. Tears started running down her face. The weaponized tears she always used to get her way. “We raised you. We fed you. And you give the credit to—to Susan Miller? That woman is a stranger.”
“She was there,” I said. “She was sitting in the chair you left empty.”
“It was one weekend,” Mom sobbed. “We have been there for 22 years.”
“No,” I said. “You haven’t.”
The room went silent.
“You weren’t there for the science fair,” I said, counting on my fingers. “You weren’t there for the debate finals. You weren’t there when I broke my arm when I was 12 and drove myself to urgent care because you were watching Khloe’s recital. You have never been there.”
“That is not true,” Dad sputtered. “You’re exaggerating. You’re being dramatic.”
“I’m done,” I said. “I’m done being the background character in Kloe’s life.”