Chapter 1

There was not a single post in my mom's Instagram for a decade.

I always thought she just didn't know how to use it until one day, a coworker leaned over my shoulder.

She said, "Didn't your mom post a photo of her grandkid yesterday? I saw it on my feed."

I froze. "What photo?"

She handed me her phone.

On the screen was my mom's Instagram, post after post.

Ten years of her life had been carefully documented.

Every moment was neatly recorded, and every memory was preserved with precision, yet not a single one I was ever allowed to see.

*****

I stared at my coworker's phone, my fingers going cold.

My mom's Instagram wasn't empty.

It was overflowing with photos, videos, and text—packed together in a dense stream.

The latest post was from three days ago.

In the photo, my mom was holding a little boy, her eyes squinting from her big smile.

The caption read: [Antonio Fraser is one and a half now—my sweetheart.]

I didn't recognize that kid.

"Who is this?" I asked.

My coworker leaned in. "Isn't that Kiara's second kid? He's already one and a half. You haven't met him?"

I didn't say a word.

My sister had a second kid, and he was already one and a half.

No one ever told me.

I handed my coworker her phone back and opened my own Instagram.

I tapped into my mom's Instagram profile.

There was nothing I could see.

I tapped into Kiara's Instagram.

It was empty as well.

My dad's Instagram, my brother-in-law's Instagram—there was nothing there either.

All of them had hidden their posts from me.

I sat at my desk, staring at those four empty Instagram feeds.

All around me, people were laughing and chatting on the phone.

I couldn't hear any of it.

My mind was stuck on one thing.

They'd kept me in the dark for ten years.

I grabbed my phone and checked my chat with my mom.

The last message was from last month.

I'd sent her 1,500 dollars.

i said: [Mom, this is for this month.]

She replied with just one word: [Okay.]

I kept scrolling up.

Every month, I sent her money—1,000 dollars, 1,500 dollars, sometimes 2,500 dollars.

On holidays, I'd send 3,000 or 7,000 dollars.

When Kiara got married, I sent her 150 thousand dollars.

When Kiara bought a house, I sent her 25,000 dollars.

When my dad was in the hospital, I sent 10,000 dollars.

Every single transaction was there, clear as day.

I'd never bothered to add it all up before.

That night, back in my apartment, I pulled up all my transfer records and started adding them up, one by one.

By the time I finished, my hands were shaking.

It totalled, 150 thousand dollars.

For ten years, I earned just 2,500 dollars a month, but I'd sent my family 150 thousand dollars.

And all I got in return was that they hid their feeds from me.

I tossed my phone onto the bed.

I didn't cry.

I just felt cold, all the way to my bones.

That night, I couldn't sleep.

I wasn't sad.

It was like flipping through a ledger—memories coming up one after another, all on their own.

The year Kiara got married, I was living out of town.

My mom called me. "Kiara's getting married, but we're short on wedding money. How much do you have?"

It was only my second year working, and all I had in my account was 11,000 dollars.

I sent her the whole 10,000 dollars.

"When's the wedding? I'll take some time off and come back for it," I said.

My mom replied, "No need. It's just a small ceremony, and the round-trip tickets would cost a lot."

So I didn't go.

Then I thought I'd check Kiara's Instagram. Wait, that was not right.

I was completely blocked from seeing anything on her Instagram.

It was a friend from college who showed me.

"Your sister's wedding was so extravagant. There were at least 200 people," she said.

In the photo, my mom was wearing a red dress, smiling so wide her eyes nearly disappeared.

My dad was in a suit and tie, his hair perfectly styled.

All the family showed up—my aunt, Lily Parker, my uncle, Leonard Parker, my cousin Nadia Parker, and the like.

Everyone was there except me.

But my mom said it was just a small ceremony.

I didn't say anything. I just closed my friend's message.

The year Kiara bought her house, my mom called me again.

"We're short 25,000 dollars for the down payment. Kiara's been stressing every day. Can you spare anything?" she asked.

By then, I'd spent four years saving up—just enough for the deposit and three months' rent on my own place.

I gritted my teeth and wired over 25,000 dollars.

"Do you want me to come back and help with the move?" I asked.

My mom replied, "No, don't worry about it. Just focus on your own life."

Later, I found out my parents had put in 50,000 dollars for renovating the new place. Plus the 25,000 dollars I sent, there were 75,000 dollars in total.

And how much did Kiara and Parker put in? Nothing.

My mom called it "helping out."

She said, "It's only natural to support your sister."

But what about me?

I'd spent six years renting apartments in this city.

No one ever asked me, "Are you doing okay? Need someone to help you out?"