Chapter 1: The Price of Being Family
“NO! I’m not paying TWO THOUSAND DOLLARS for prom!””
My stepfather’s voice cracked through our kitchen just as my mother’s credit card struck the marble island, and in that instant, I realized the man who had raised me for nine years was tired of being treated like a stranger in his own family.
I stood beside the refrigerator, holding my phone with both hands.
My mother, Natasha Johnson, stared at him as if he had slapped her.
“Chris, have you lost your mind?”” she demanded.
“She needs a dress, shoes, hair, makeup, transportation! This is her senior prom!””
Chris folded his arms.
“And the dress costs twelve hundred dollars.””
“It’s a designer dress.””
“It’s one night, Natasha.””
“One night she’ll remember for the rest of her life!””
“So will I,” Chris replied quietly.
“Apparently, I’ve spent nine years helping raise a daughter I’m not allowed to parent.””
My stomach twisted.
My name is Maya Johnson. I was seventeen, a senior at a public high school in Atlanta, Georgia, and until that morning, I believed my biggest problem was whether emerald green or royal blue would look better under the lights at senior prom.
I had no idea that a dress could expose everything my family had spent years pretending wasn't broken.
Chris was forty-two, broad-shouldered, with graying hair at his temples and a habit of rubbing his wedding ring whenever he was worried.
He had been married to my mother since I was eight.
I remembered our first meeting.
He'd come to our apartment carrying yellow roses for Mom and a little science experiment kit for me. He didn't try to kiss my cheek. He didn't tell me he was going to be my new daddy.
Instead, he sat cross-legged on our living room floor and helped me build a volcano.
When the baking soda erupted across the kitchen tray, I laughed so hard that I fell backward.
Chris laughed with me.
That was how it started.
He taught me to ride a bicycle in the parking lot behind our building. He sat through my school concerts, even when I played the wrong notes. When I broke my wrist at eleven, he waited beside me in the emergency room until nearly three in the morning.
At fourteen, when I failed my first algebra exam, he spent three evenings at our dining table teaching me equations.
He never once told me I owed him for any of it.
My biological father, Andre, had always been a different story.
He lived across town, but somehow distance had never been the real problem.
Sometimes he remembered my birthday.
Sometimes he sent a gift three weeks late.
He had never attended a parent-teacher conference or picked me up from school when I was sick.
Chris had done all those things.
Still, my mother had a rule.
Whenever Chris questioned one of her parenting decisions, she delivered the same sentence.
“She's my daughter, Chris. Stay in your lane.””
He usually went quiet.
I used to think that was because he hated confrontation.
Now I wondered whether he had simply grown tired of having his love treated like an inconvenience.
“Two thousand dollars is ridiculous,” Chris continued.
“We can find a beautiful dress for less. We can set a reasonable budget for the rest.””
Mom slapped the printed boutique list onto the island.
“You promised Maya she'd have the perfect prom.””
“I promised her she could go.””
“You know what I meant.””
“Yes,” Chris said.
“I do. You want the most expensive option because you want everyone to see what kind of life you've given her.””
Mom's cheeks flushed.
“How dare you?””
“Then tell me why this has to cost two thousand dollars.””
“Because she deserves it!””
I finally found my voice.
“Mom, it's okay. I don't need the expensive dress.””
She swung toward me.
“Don't you dare start settling for less because someone else doesn't understand your worth.””
Chris looked at me, and the hard lines around his mouth softened.
“Maya, sweetheart, that's not what I'm saying.””
“I know,” I whispered.
But I didn't know.
Not really.
Because the previous evening, I'd heard them arguing through the floor of my bedroom.
At first, their voices had been low. Then Mom had shouted loud enough that I'd stopped studying.
“You don't get to decide what Maya deserves!””
Chris answered, “I'm not saying she doesn't deserve a beautiful night. I'm saying two thousand dollars is excessive.””
Then came the sentence that had silenced the whole house.
“She's my daughter, Chris. Not yours. You don't get to control how I raise her!””
There had been a long pause.
Then Chris said, “I understand.””
A bedroom door closed.
Now, standing in our kitchen, I understood that his quiet response hadn't meant he agreed.
It meant something in him had given way.
“Yesterday,” he said, looking directly at Mom, “you made it perfectly clear that Maya is your daughter and I'm not her father.””
Mom's expression changed.
“Chris, that was different.””
“Different how?””
“You know what I meant.””
“Then explain it to me.””
She glanced at me before lowering her voice.
“Not in front of Maya.””
He let out a humorless laugh.
“You brought her prom expenses into this conversation. You called me cheap in front of her. You told me I had no right to make decisions about her. But now we can't discuss what you said because she's standing here?””
“Stop twisting my words!””
“I'm repeating them.””
Mom reached for his credit card.
He picked it up before her fingers touched it and slid it into his wallet.
Then he looked at her.
“Call Andre.””
Her mouth fell open.
“Excuse me?””
“Call Maya's father. Ask him to pay the two thousand dollars.””
The words seemed to suck all the air out of the kitchen.
I stared at Chris.
Then at Mom.
“Why would you say that?”” she whispered.
“Because apparently, he's the only person who gets to be her father without having to earn the title.””
“That is cruel.””
“No, Natasha. What's cruel is expecting me to provide everything and then telling me I have no right to care.””
My eyes burned.
I hated this.
I hated the tension in Mom's shoulders. I hated the way Chris avoided looking directly at me. Most of all, I hated knowing that my name was being used as a weapon between two people I loved.
“Forget it,” I said.
Neither of them responded.
“I don't want the dress. I don't want the makeup. I don't even want to go to prom.””
Chris immediately stepped toward me.
“Maya, don't say that.””
“Why not? Then nobody has to argue.””
“That's not what I want.””
“Then what do you want?””
He opened his mouth.
For a moment, I thought he might finally tell me what had happened the night before.
Instead, he looked at my mother.
“I want us to stop pretending that love is something you can switch off whenever it's inconvenient.””
Mom's eyes filled with tears, but her next words were sharp.
“See what you've done? You've ruined her senior year.””
Chris went very still.
Then he picked up his keys and walked toward the garage.
At the doorway, he stopped.
“Maya, sweetheart, this isn't your fault.””
He looked like he wanted to say more.
He didn't.
The garage door closed behind him.
Mom immediately turned on me.
“Go upstairs. I need a minute.””
I stared at her.
“You're sending me away because you don't want me to hear you explain yourself?””
“Maya, please.””
“Why did you say he wasn't my father?””
Her jaw tightened.
“Because he's not your biological father.””
“I know that!””
My voice broke.
“I'm seventeen, Mom. You don't have to explain genetics to me.””
For a second, she looked almost frightened.
Then she picked up the prom list and straightened it, even though it was already flat on the counter.
“Go upstairs.””
I obeyed.
I made it halfway up the stairs before I heard her whisper, “You should never have made me choose.””
I didn't know who she was talking to.
But I had the terrible feeling she wasn't talking about the dress.
In my bedroom, I sat on the floor beside my bed and stared at the emerald-green gown on my laptop screen.
Twelve hundred dollars.
All that money for something I suddenly didn't want anyone to see me wearing.
My phone vibrated.
An unfamiliar notification appeared.
*Andre Johnson*
I hadn't received a message from my biological father in eight months.
I opened it.
Hey, princess. Your mom says there's something important we need to talk about.
Before I could respond, another message appeared.
It's about Chris.
I read it twice.
Then a third message appeared.
Please don't tell your mother I contacted you. Not yet. Can you meet me tomorrow morning?
I looked toward my bedroom door.
Downstairs, Mom was crying.
May you like
Somewhere outside, Chris's truck started.
And for the first time in my life, I wondered whether the father who had stayed was about to leave—and whether the father who had disappeared might know exactly why.
