PART 1
My daughter, Rylee, lives with me during the week and with her dad, Travis, every other weekend.
Two years ago, Travis married Brittany.
Brittany is twenty-nine, very pretty, and very online. She runs a family account called @BrittMomsBest.
2.1 million followers.
Matching outfits. Morning routines. “Day in the life of a bonus mom.”
I didn’t follow it. I didn’t want to.
Then, last month, a coworker showed me her phone at lunch.
“Isn’t this your daughter?”
It was Rylee.
Sitting in a bathtub full of ice cubes, crying, while a voice off-camera laughed and said, “Ten more seconds, baby! Do it for the followers!”
The caption said: My daughter is SO brave 🧊 #icechallenge
My daughter.
Brittany had never once called Rylee her daughter in person.
I called Travis.
“It’s just content,” he said. “Kids love it. You’re just jealous because Britt’s a better mom on camera than you are in real life.”
Then he hung up.
I scrolled through the account that night until 3 a.m.
Rylee eating a ghost pepper. Rylee “surprised” by a fake spider. Rylee crying because Brittany told her the dog had died, then laughing, “Just kidding! Prank!”
Eleven million views.
The comments were full of hearts.
The next Saturday was Rylee’s spring dance recital. Travis had her for the weekend, but he’d agreed to bring her.
I got there early with flowers.
Brittany walked in with a ring light, a phone on a gimbal, and her own matching pink dress.
She didn’t say hello. She looked at my sneakers and laughed.
“Cute. Did you come from work?”
Then she filmed herself fixing Rylee’s bun backstage.
“Bonus mom duty! Somebody has to make her look presentable.”
Travis stood behind her holding a tripod.
Before the show, Rylee asked to go to the bathroom.
She grabbed my hand and pulled me with her.
As soon as the door closed, she started crying.
“Mommy, I’m so hungry.”
“Baby, didn’t you eat breakfast?”
She shook her head.
“I’m not allowed to eat until the video gets a million views. That’s the rule. Brittany says I’m getting too chubby for the camera.”
I knelt down in front of her.
My hands were shaking.
Then Rylee pulled down the collar of her costume.
There was a bruise on her shoulder. Dark purple. Four fingers wide.
“She holds me there,” Rylee whispered. “So I don’t come up too fast.”
“Come up from where, baby?”
“The bathtub. With the ice.”
