After dinner, Emily vanished into her room, phone in hand.
Somewhere along the line, she’d become quiet, guarded. A chasm had opened between us.
*She’s a teenager*, I reasoned. *She’s entitled to her privacy, as long as her grades are okay.*
I didn’t push it.
Settling on the couch, I flipped through mindless reality TV. Nothing held my attention.
Almost against my will, I searched for that local 18-year-old’s post again.
When her profile loaded, my hands started to shake.
I stared, blinking, praying my eyes were lying.
But no. There it was. A photo of a plate of buffalo wings from the restaurant downstairs.
The next post was a fit-check: a grey puffer jacket, black leggings, and combat boots.
The air left my lungs. I pressed a hand to my chest, suffocating.
I’d bought that jacket for Emily in an online haul. I’d recognized it immediately, didn’t even haggle.
It was hers.
The pregnant teen was *Emily*?
How? Who? Was she assaulted? Why didn’t she tell me?
Questions tornadoed in my head. I wanted to burst into her room and demand answers.
I forced myself to stay put.
Work had been crazy lately. Maybe I’d missed the signs. I had to handle this carefully. I couldn’t scare her.
Trembling, I kept reading.
The comments were a cesspool. Now that she’d posted normal pics, the internet had decided she was keeping the baby. The insults were vile. *Slut. Attention-seeker. Trash.*
My stomach churned. Emily had replied to some of the haters. The damage was done.
