I looked at my little girl. She had been forced to grow up far too fast, collateral damage in a war she didn’t start. She had watched me cry myself to sleep. She had watched me count pennies at the grocery store while her father bought sports cars. And now, she was standing between me and the people who were supposed to protect us, wielding the truth like a broadsword.
I took a deep breath. The fear evaporated, replaced by a fierce, maternal fire.
“Don’t delete it,” I said, my voice steady and clear. I reached into my apron pocket, pulled out my own phone, and opened my Facebook app. “Post it. And the second you do, I am sharing it to my own wall, making it public.”
Ava smiled. Her thumb came down on the screen. Click.
“Now,” I said, untying my apron and throwing it onto the counter. “Let’s go eat that turkey.”
Chapter 3: Humiliation at the Restaurant
Half an hour later, Ava and I were sitting at the kitchen island. The grand dining room table, with its perfect, gold-rimmed place cards, remained untouched in the other room. We had carved thick slices of white meat, piled our plates high with mashed potatoes and gravy, and were in the middle of cutting the first, gooey slice of pecan pie.
For the first time all day, the house felt light. The suffocating pressure of trying to impress people who didn’t care about us was gone. We were laughing at a joke Ava had made about the turkey’s dry wings.
Then, my phone, resting next to my wine glass, began to vibrate.
It didn’t just ring; it convulsed. The screen lit up like a slot machine. A call from my mother. I ignored it. A call from Melanie. I ignored it. A text from my father. Then, the Facebook notifications began rolling in like a tidal wave.
