Chapter 65
Maple
Yeah, Maple’s been going after the wrong YouTube mom IMO. She needs to look a little closer to home
The world around me is shifting, spinning. I catch eyes with Ash, then whip my head away like it stings. I thought things couldn’t get any worse. But I can’t catch my breath; can’t think straight.
The man she calls Dad is just some schmuck who fell for her pregnant mom’s fake charm.
Did I hear him right? Dad isn’t my real dad?
This, on top of all the shit I’m already dealing with?
And if Dad isn’t, then who is?
I think of those images on the dark web. My face on a stranger’s body. Being watched by gross men, fantasized about, jerked off over. Me, but not me.
That’s what I feel like now. I look like me, but it’s all fake.
‘Maple?’ Aspen whispers, her voice shaky too. ‘What’s Dad shouting? What does he mean?’
‘Nothing,’ I fire back. I don’t know who I’m trying to protect: myself or my siblings.
Jesus, my half-siblings. All this time, wondering why Dad has more time for the twins than me, why he seems to love them more.
Always blaming myself for being too girly, not daring or outdoorsy enough.
When the truth is, this all started before I was even born.
My face starts to crack, and I force myself to smooth it out. I can’t let the twins see me cry, but I can’t leave them alone here either. I need to get them away from the glass doors with their shit sound insulation. ‘Let’s go watch a movie,’ I say. ‘Come on.’
I grab their hands and pull them out of the kitchen and into the den.
I close the heavy wooden door. Shut out the noise.
I put on Zootopia 2 and turn the volume up.
We all lower onto the big couch in silence, like we’re counting the seconds until we can get transported to a different world.
But that’s not how it is for me. I want to be alone – to have space to think – so as soon as the opening credits are done, I mumble an excuse and head upstairs.
I walk through my room, into my bathroom, and lock the door.
My dad is not my dad.
I sink down to the floor, pull my knees into my chest, rest my head on the edge of the bath.
We’d been apart for over two years when you knocked on my college room door that night, begging for my help.
I have always known that Mom and Dad – maybe I should call him something else now, but I don’t know what; I can’t go there yet – dated in high school.
Then Dad went to college in Colorado and Mom stayed in Provo, doing babysitting work, singing in her spare time.
She was just waiting for Dad to graduate; that’s what they always said.
But it’s not true. They’d broken up. Mom slept with a different man who made her pregnant.
Did my biological father reject me? Is that why Mom went running to Dad? Or did she never consider my bio-dad husband material?
Fuck. Does he even know I exist?
God, I have so many questions! But I can’t ask any of them because I don’t want to talk to either of my parents ever again.
Dad has always made me feel second best and now I know why.
Mom tells me I’m special, that it’s Mom and Maple forever, but she’s kept this huge secret from me.
I guess I know that Mom lies, all the fake stories she posts about me.
But lying about who my father is? How could she do that?
And I would still be in the dark if I hadn’t got thirsty enough to drag myself out of my room and go downstairs for orange juice.
Aspen and Ash would know and I wouldn’t – by overhearing their mom and dad shouting.
Shit parenting 101. Jesus, I can’t believe I was feeling bad about causing their arguments when they’ve kept this huge dark secret about me.
There’s the other stuff Mom said too. How she called child abuse woke bullshit.
I wonder whether she’d feel that way if she knew what I know.
That all those cutesy pictures and videos of me when I was two, three, four, five, every fucking age, might now be fair game for tech freaks to make AI porn from. Would she finally feel guilty?
But maybe I’m giving her too much credit. Maybe she already knows and doesn’t give a shit.
I’m a pragmatist, Garrett. What difference does it really make?
That woman does not deserve to be anyone’s mom.
I push up to standing, my fists clenched. I’m not spiraling anymore. Not shocked, or sad, or broken. I’m just angry. Pissed off that I’ve spent fourteen years listening to my mom, believing that she loves me, that she’s sacrificing her whole life for mine.
I grab a warm jumper from my cupboard, pull on my most comfy sneakers, and shove the money I’ve been saving – a few hundred dollars – in the pockets of my jeans.
Because I might have nowhere to go, but I’m not staying here.