Part 2I Pay Strangers to Be My Dad

Mom picked up the camera and clicked on the gallery, which stored row after row of photos featuring Dad, Winona, and her daughter.

I saw a photo taken on the day Mom miscarried. Dad was accompanying them on a Ferris wheel ride.

Another photo was taken the night Mom bled a lot after cutting herself. Dad was accompanying them to watch a fireworks display.

A sharp pang of agony pierced my chest, and I cried. It turned out Dad did have time after all. He just never spared any of it for Mom.

Trembling from head to toe, Mom pulled me into her arms, her raspy voice filled with determination. "Sarah, Dad is dead to us, right?"

I nodded repeatedly.

Having clearly made up her mind about something, Mom raised the camera and threw it against the wall with all her might.

With a loud crash, the camera shattered into a million tiny pieces.

I knew her heart had broken right along with it.

Before falling asleep that night, I overheard Mom talking to a man on the phone.

"I'll take the photography job at Glenside," she said. "I'll be there in a week, just as we agreed."

Just as sleep took over, I suddenly remembered that Mom used to be a world-renowned photographer.

Whenever she released something, wealthy elites and high-profile celebrities would aggressively outbid one another at auctions just to own her work.

Later, she gave up her entire career for Dad, hiding away in Jarrow to work a grueling job that paid a measly 3,000 dollars a month just to be mistreated by others.

I couldn't help but smile a little. In seven days, the brilliant, successful version of Mom would finally return.

…

There were five days until our departure.

The moment I returned home after school, loud, chaotic crashing noises echoed from inside the house.

I saw Dad, who hadn't set foot in our home for two days, grabbing the trophies Mom and I won from our competitions and carelessly tossing them into a box.

The dresses Mom had saved up to buy me and my limited-edition dolls were also shoved inside the box.

My mind went blank, and I looked at Mom with growing anxiety. Her expression was calm, though the hands resting at her sides shook with rage.

"Are you kidding me, Callum? I can look past the fact that you didn't bother coming home to check on Sarah for two days, but the second you walk through the door, you start stealing her belongings for that woman and her child."

Dad didn't think much of it, casually smiling as he turned a trophy over in his hands.

"I didn't want it to come to this either. But if you hadn't posted that petty Instagram post just to upset Winnie and Yvonne, they wouldn't be so depressed right now. Besides, Sarah already gets plenty of things. What's wrong with sharing a couple of them with a little girl who doesn't have a father?"

Mom scoffed in disbelief, her eyes reddening with disappointment.

"I never bragged about a single thing. Then again, a thief thinks everyone steals. Sarah and I worked our fingers to the bone to win those trophies. While you were busy comforting another man's wife and daughter, did you ever stop to think about your own child?"

I stood there frozen, unable to understand how Dad could become a person like this.

I remembered how Mom and I wanted to eat caneles in the past. Even though they weren't sold anywhere in our city, Dad personally traveled 1,800 miles just to learn how to make them for us.

Yet now, he wanted to strip us of our belongings to hand them over to someone else.

Mom took a deep breath, seeing right through him. She pulled out her phone and sent a message to the reporter who requested an interview with us.

"Ms. Lane, I'm available for an interview for your mothers and daughters segment. How does tomorrow at 7:00 pm sound?

"Alright, I'll see you at No. 302, Ascencia Rd."

"Rebecca Jennings! What do you think you're doing?" Dad barked, snatching the phone right out of her hand.

Mom raised her chin, looking down at him with an icy gaze. "If they want to claim those trophies as their own, they better have the nerve to back it up. As long as they can handle a live press interview, they're welcome to keep the trophies.

Dad clenched his jaw, laughing out of sheer frustration. "Are you seriously hell-bent on making this ugly? Becky, when did you turn into such a bitter person?"

He tamped down his temper, his face dark as he ordered the movers to carry the final box out the door.

Just before he left, Dad glanced at Mom with a mix of confusion and disapproval.

"The woman I married used to be generous, sweet, and graceful. I'll bring the items back once they're done with them anyway, so you'd better cancel that interview right now!"

The woman he married?

I stared down at the tips of my shoes, a dull ache piercing my chest. Dad didn't use to be like this either.

"Don't you dare walk out that door! Give Sarah's things back—"

"Mom!" I cut her off sharply.

Turning around to look at Dad, I nodded obediently. "I don't want those things anymore, Dad. You can give them to her."

A flash of joy washed over Dad's face, and he smiled, reaching out to pat my head. "That's my girl."

Once Dad left, I looked around the empty room and pulled ten dollars out of my piggy bank.

Taking Mom's hand, which was trembling as her eyes welled with tears, I led her downstairs to our neighbor's apartment.

"Jacob, can I pay you ten dollars to pretend to be my dad for tonight? It's my mom's birthday today."