Page 4 of Peak Cruelty

Vance

S he’s posting again.

Three hours ago: a mirror selfie in the hospital bathroom. Ponytail. Lip gloss. That same soft smile she uses when she wants the likes to look earned. Caption says, “Just me today—reviewing meds, asking all the hard questions ???? #MomLife.”

No kid in frame. No badge visible. Nothing timestamped. Just a filtered face and a flattened truth.

I scroll past the comments.

“You’re amazing.”

“Such a warrior mama. Keep fighting!”

“Sending prayers.”

All of it noise.

She’s been laying this groundwork for months. Soft drops of tragedy, perfectly spaced. Enough to pull sympathy without scrutiny. The girl—Ava—is always just out of focus. Blurry hand, half a braid, maybe a sneaker. Her mother keeps the camera trained where she wants it: on herself.

The account’s public, with two hundred fifty thousand followers eating up what she’s selling.

The personal one’s locked. Doesn’t matter.

It cracked open like a bad alibi by week one.

That’s the thing about people like her—careful with the show, careless with the parts that count.

She’s not a mother. She’s a martyr with a marketing plan.

I scan the story highlights again.

“ER Visits ??”

“Tests & Trials ??”

“Miracles.”

Each one wrapped in the same aesthetic. Pink overlay. Soft fonts. Music that makes it feel like a documentary instead of a performance. And always her—smiling bravely through it.

There’s no diagnosis. No scans. Just language meant to suggest what she won’t say directly.

“Hard day.”

“Unclear results.”

“Still no answers.”

She makes a ritual of not naming things. It keeps the illusion intact.

Tomorrow is Friday.

She always posts more on Fridays. Three weeks in a row, she’s checked into the hospital solo.

“Quick follow-up.”

“Consult day.”

No child in sight. Just her phone and a look that says this is so hard, but I’m strong enough to do it anyway.

She’s not.

She’s just loud enough to keep anyone from noticing.

People think the sickness is about the kid. It’s not. It’s about control. The narrative. The attention. The way she centers herself in suffering and calls it love.

That’s why she goes alone.

Of course she goes alone. You can’t lie properly when someone else is in the room.

I switch screens. Revisit her most recent check-in. The hospital timestamp matches the photo’s metadata. I don’t need her to admit anything. I just need her to repeat the pattern.

I already know where she parks. What time she checks in. How long she usually stays. Last Friday she was in and out in forty-seven minutes. The Friday before that? Fifty-one.

She’s never early. Never late.

There’s no one to greet her when she leaves. No one to carry her bag. No one to question what happens in between.

It’s clean.

Predictable.

And that’s what makes it possible.

I’m not here for her today. I’m here to see who else might fit.

I don’t get nervous. Not about this. The last time I waited this long, I made the mistake of hoping she’d stop herself. That she’d post something honest. Break the pattern. Walk away.

She didn’t.

This one won’t either.

She’s in too deep. Too practiced. Too sure no one sees her.

But I do.

I see all of it. Every curated caption. Every selective crop. Every post designed to generate empathy without accountability.

She doesn’t want a diagnosis. She wants devotion.

She wants to be the story.

Tomorrow, she’ll get what she wants.

I don’t mind giving her a better ending.

I glance down at the last frame. Her lips are parted, as though she’s about to say something important. But the words never come. They don’t have to.

She’s already told me everything I need to know.

By noon, the spotlight will still be on her. She just won’t like the angle.