Page 25
The kind of smile that gets her another feature inVariety, another invite to the next A-list party, another chance to rewrite her story.
But I know the truth behind that smile.
She doesn’t love children.
She doesn’t even love her own.
She abandoned me the moment I stopped being cute, the second I became too real for her perfect life. The minute I needed her to show up—as a mother, as a person—she vanished. No explanation. No goodbye.
Just gone.
Actually, no. She gave an explanation. I was a burden. My father and I, we were dragging her back. She had a dream. She wanted to become a rich, famous actress. With me hanging on her coattails, it would be impossible. So she left me. Poof. Disappeared. Just gone.
They say love is supposed to be unconditional when it comes from your mother. Supposed to weather your mistakes. Forgive your worst. Hold on through the ugly parts.
But hers had conditions, all of them wrapped in fame, image, and convenience.
I was inconvenient.
So she left.
I slam the laptop shut. Hard.
The sound echoes in the silence of the room.
I lean back in my chair and drag a hand through my hair, gripping the strands like it’ll help me hold something together.
I don’t care what she thinks of me.
Not anymore.
Not the scandals. Not the gossip columns. Not the flings or the red carpet disasters. I’m not doing any of it for her. I’m not secretly hoping she’ll open her phone one morning, see my nameplastered across the headlines, and feel something—regret, guilt, longing.
That ship sailed a long time ago.
I’ve spent too long wrecking myself to get a reaction out of someone who never looked back.
I grab my phone and switch it off.
Cold, final.
I stare at the blank screen for a long second before tossing it onto the couch beside me.
I’m done.
I mean it this time.
No more Megan Hart.
No more trying to prove I mattered once.
No more performing in the hopes she might actually applaud.
She lost her right to care about me a long time ago.
And I’m finally ready to stop caring about her.
Two mornings after, I don’t protest when Brody shows up at my place—suitcase in one hand, Starbucks in the other, wearing that usual smirk that says I know I’m about to deal with a pain in the butt, but I signed up for it anyway.
Table of Contents
- Page 1
- Page 2
- Page 3
- Page 4
- Page 5
- Page 6
- Page 7
- Page 8
- Page 9
- Page 10
- Page 11
- Page 12
- Page 13
- Page 14
- Page 15
- Page 16
- Page 17
- Page 18
- Page 19
- Page 20
- Page 21
- Page 22
- Page 23
- Page 24
- Page 25 (Reading here)
- Page 26
- Page 27
- Page 28
- Page 29
- Page 30
- Page 31
- Page 32
- Page 33
- Page 34
- Page 35
- Page 36
- Page 37
- Page 38
- Page 39
- Page 40
- Page 41
- Page 42
- Page 43
- Page 44
- Page 45
- Page 46
- Page 47
- Page 48
- Page 49
- Page 50
- Page 51
- Page 52
- Page 53
- Page 54
- Page 55
- Page 56
- Page 57
- Page 58
- Page 59
- Page 60
- Page 61
- Page 62
- Page 63
- Page 64
- Page 65
- Page 66
- Page 67
- Page 68
- Page 69
- Page 70
- Page 71
- Page 72
- Page 73
- Page 74
- Page 75
- Page 76
- Page 77
- Page 78
- Page 79
- Page 80
- Page 81
- Page 82
- Page 83
- Page 84
- Page 85
- Page 86
- Page 87
- Page 88
- Page 89
- Page 90
- Page 91
- Page 92
- Page 93
- Page 94
- Page 95
- Page 96
- Page 97
- Page 98
- Page 99
- Page 100
- Page 101
- Page 102
- Page 103
- Page 104
- Page 105
- Page 106
- Page 107
- Page 108
- Page 109
- Page 110
- Page 111
- Page 112
- Page 113
- Page 114
- Page 115
- Page 116
- Page 117
- Page 118