Chapter 3

I walked in during the middle of Dad's speech.

He stood at a podium up front, microphone in hand, hitting every beat like he'd practiced it in the mirror.

"When we joined the Beacon program, we had no idea how much it would change us. Lila's taught us more about showing up than we ever expected—"

"Show up for who?"

My voice carried further than I meant it to. The room went quiet. Just for a second. But it was enough for everyone to turn around.

Mom was on her feet before I'd finished walking down the aisle.

"Sloane! You came — come sit with us—"

"I'm not sitting."

I kept walking until I was close enough for the whole room to hear me without the mic.

"For anyone confused, I'm Sloane Hartwell. Their daughter. Their actual daughter."

I let that sit for a second.

"Not the one on the poster outside. Not the one with the new bedroom and the Sunday dinners. The other one. I'm not part of the project."

Somewhere behind me, a woman leaned toward her husband.

"Wait — they have another kid?"

"Family of the Year and their own daughter didn't even get invited?"

"Oh my god."

Dad's hand tightened around the podium edge. "Sloane. Not here."

"Then where, Dad? At home? You're never there."

"Sloane Hartwell, I am warning you—"

"You're warning me. That's new. Usually you just forget I exist."

I pulled out my phone and turned the screen toward the room.

"This is the Beacon app. 'The Hartwell Project.' Six months of journals and photos, all about Lila."

I swiped.

"This is Mom picking Lila up from school every day this semester. My college counselor left you three voicemails, Dad. You never called back."

I swiped again.

"This is the room you designed for Lila, Mom. Every detail, your words. I sent you a Pinterest board last year. Twelve pins. You never opened it."

One more swipe.

"And this is the recommendation letter you wrote for Lila's summer program. Four paragraphs. You don't even know what schools I applied to."

I lowered the phone.

"You got Family of the Year for showing up for someone else's kid. When's the last time you showed up for yours?"

"You can call this a scene. Call me ungrateful. I don't care anymore."

My voice cracked on the last word. I hated that. I kept going anyway.

"Somebody explain it to me. How do you practice being a parent on someone else's kid for six months, while your own kid eats dinner alone every night?"

"How do you show up to every single thing on Lila's calendar and not one thing on mine?"

"You wrote her a recommendation letter, Dad. I saw the draft in your desk. You don't even know where I applied."

Lila had gone pale. She tugged Mom's sleeve, said something too quiet to hear.

Mom didn't look at her. Her eyes stayed on me, and they were wet now.

The door at the back banged open.

Kieran came in with his shirt buttoned wrong, like he'd thrown it on running out the door.

He saw me standing at the front. Saw Dad frozen at the podium. Saw a hundred people staring at his family.

He crossed the room and grabbed my hand — the one holding the phone. Not pulling it down. Pressing it, his whole weight behind it.

"Get off me, Kieran."

He didn't let go.

"Sloane. Look at the screen."

"I don't want to see their slideshow."

"It's not theirs."

He was crying. Kieran, who hadn't cried since he broke his wrist at eight, standing in front of a hundred strangers with tears running down his face.

"It's yours."

His voice broke on that last word.

I stopped pulling. Not because I believed him. Because Kieran doesn't cry. He doesn't grab people in front of strangers. He doesn't come apart like something in him just snapped.

"What do you mean, mine?"

He didn't answer.

He just looked at the stage.