The day I won the National Fine Arts Award, a popular reunion reality show crashed the ceremony.

"Ms. Simmons, is it true that you disappeared twenty years ago because you still resent your father—a rescue captain who selflessly saved the neighbor's child first, leaving you for last?"

I lifted my eyes to look at my father, Kenneth Abbott.

He stepped forward and grasped my cold hands, his own trembling. "Sweetheart, that child's parents were both dead. I had to save him first."

"You're my daughter. You understand that, don't you?"

A bitter smile tugged at my lips. I shook off his grip.

"My name is Jennifer Simmons. Not 'sweetheart.' You have the wrong person."

"The fire hero."

1.

The scattered applause died. Every eye in the room turned toward us.

I turned to leave, but he blocked my path again.

"Sweetheart, do you really have to do this? I was a rescue captain—saving lives was my duty. In that situation, I had to put civilians first to avoid any appearance of favoritism. By the time I went back for them... it was too late. I explained all of this to you years ago. Why are you still being so difficult?"

Kenneth Abbott—my father. His weathered face was a mask of hurt and disappointment, as if two decades had never passed, as if I were still the eight-year-old girl who needed to be lectured into "understanding" his noble sacrifice.

After twenty years, nothing had changed. He still couldn't see that he'd done anything wrong.

That cold, hardened place in my chest ached at his words. I let out a soft laugh—a sound so sharp it cut through the silent banquet hall like glass.

"Captain Abbott..." I met his gaze, my eyes frozen over. "I think you're mistaken. You have one son. No daughter."

I watched his pupils contract. Each word I spoke was slow, deliberate—a verdict being read aloud.

"Twenty years ago, your children died in that fire. Along with your mother."

I paused, as if just remembering something, and let a cold smile curve my lips.

"Oh, that's right—I almost forgot. You were busy back then. Busy accepting commendations. Busy adopting a new son. Busy being everyone's hero." My voice dropped. "Who has time to remember they once had a family?"

The color drained from his face. His mouth opened, but nothing came out. He looked exactly as he had after the fire, when Mom learned that my two brothers and grandmother had all burned to death—when she screamed and collapsed and demanded answers. He'd stood there just like this. Ashen. Silent. A statue crumbling to dust.

I stepped around him to leave.

The host shoved his microphone back in my face.

"Ms. Simmons! Our sources say your family members died protecting you that night. Is your refusal to reconcile because you resent your father for not saving you first? Or is it that you can't bear to give up your comfortable life as a Simmons heiress?"

"Why did you really leave all those years ago?"

I glanced at that calculating face and smiled coldly. "Those questions are for Captain Abbott, not me. After all, he knows the answers better than I do."

I pushed the microphone aside and walked away.

"Jennifer!"

My father's voice finally cracked. "How long are you going to keep this up? Your mother lost her mind because of you! Do you want to destroy this family completely?"

His voice boomed through the hall, righteous and wounded.

Whispers rippled through the crowd.

"So she's the little girl from back then? And now she's a Simmons heiress?"

"Captain Abbott really got a raw deal... A hero at work, but his own family won't even support him."

"Tch, looks all put-together, but what a cold heart. Without her dad, where would she be today?"

"Exactly. I heard her dad even adopted an orphan later on. What a good man, stuck with a daughter like that..."

The murmurs washed over me. I watched my father's face settle into that expression again—that almost noble look of resolute suffering—and my feet stopped dead.

"Home?"

I repeated the word under my breath, then let out a soft laugh. It came out hollow, scraped raw.

"That home... didn't it fall apart twenty years ago? The moment you chose to 'avoid the appearance of favoritism'?"

I used to believe time could dull everything. Even the searing heat and the screams from that fire. After all, it had been a full decade since I'd last jolted awake at midnight, those agonized cries no longer ringing in my ears.

Twenty years ago, I was eight. My world was small—just my two brothers who adored me, and my grandmother who always held me close. My parents were always rushing somewhere, so Grandma's arms and my brothers' laughter became all the warmth and light I knew.

Until that fire swallowed everything.

That day, Grandma pulled us tight against her. The smoke was so thick we couldn't keep our eyes open. Waves of heat rolled over us. But her voice kept trembling out reassurances:

"Don't be scared. Daddy will be back soon... He's a firefighter. He'll come save us."

She was right. Dad did come. Just not to save us.

I'll never forget the moment he burst through the door. His eyes beneath that helmet—hard as iron. Grandma grabbed his sleeve like it was a lifeline, using every bit of strength she had left:

"Take the children first! Jennifer's still running a fever..."

"Mom, I'm a firefighter. There are people trapped upstairs. I have to get them first." Dad's voice cut through the roar of the flames, calm. Almost cold. "You're my family. I can't show favoritism. You need to understand—I have to avoid even the appearance of it."

Grandma's hands—those same hands that always stroked my hair—were gently, firmly pushed away.

He turned and vanished into the smoke. He never looked back. Not once.

Twenty years, and I still can't understand—

Aren't family members part of "the people" too?

Do our lives... not even deserve to be chosen?

He was the one who abandoned us back then. And now he comes looking for me—what right does he have?!

My phone buzzed, yanking me back to the present.

Hugh Lawrence's voice came through the line: "Ms. Simmons, you're trending! They're calling you ungrateful—a backstabber! The exhibition's being boycotted, and the sponsors are getting nervous. Should we try to control the narrative?"

"Not yet. I need you to find someone for me first. I'll send you the details."

I hung up. The screen kept lighting up, each notification more glaring than the last.

#Famous artist Jennifer Simmons refuses to acknowledge hero father# (VIRAL)

#Internet outraged—boycott the ungrateful artist#

#Artistic prodigy's image collapses#

Every accusation online was another verdict against me. Every ounce of sympathy went to my hero father. People who claimed he'd pulled them from the flames appeared on camera, thanking him while sighing about how "difficult" I was being.

I tugged at the corner of my mouth, trying to smile. All I felt was a numb chill spreading through me.

Look at that. Even when he did something wrong, he's still the hero.

And me? I'm the one who got weighed and discarded—and now I'm supposed to stand trial on some moral high ground.

The doorbell cut through the silence.

I pulled the door open. My father stood at the front, the red recording light of a camera glaring from behind him. Beside him stood a man who looked about my age.

"Jennifer." My father's voice came out hoarse. "I finally found you." He reached out, already moving to grasp my arm.

My brow furrowed and I shook him off. "Captain Abbott, I thought I made myself clear the other day. My name is Simmons. I have nothing to do with you."

He froze, momentarily speechless.

The man beside him chose that moment to speak up. "Jennifer, if you need someone to blame for what happened back then, blame me. Don't hold a grudge against Uncle Kenneth anymore. You're family—blood relatives. There's no knot that can't be untied."

My father seemed to draw courage from those words. He sighed and nodded along. "That's right, Jennifer. We're family. Listen to your brother and come home."

Brother?

My gaze snapped to the man's face—Homer Cobb. The child who'd been chosen during that fire. The one my father had adopted afterward.

So he really had let this person fill the spot that burned away.

"I told you, I have nothing to do with any of you." The words scraped out through clenched teeth. "And don't you dare mention my brother. You don't have the right."

I reached for the door to shut it. Homer's foot shot out, jamming into the gap. He shoved hard, and the door swung open, sending me stumbling back two steps before I caught my balance.

I glared at them, fury rising. "What do you think you're doing? Breaking and entering?"

Homer didn't answer. He stepped inside, his eyes scanning my living room before dropping, his expression unreadable.

My father held out a cake box with trembling hands. "Jennifer, I know I was wrong before. Look—your brother and I bought your favorite strawberry cake. Try some."

I looked down at the small six-inch box.

It looked exactly like the one from my memories.

A faint laugh escaped me. I reached out and took it. The moment hope flickered in my father's eyes, I turned and tossed it into the trash.

"You want to know something?"

I lifted my gaze to his face, watching it drain of color. Every word came out sharp and distinct.

"What I hate most in this world is strawberry cake. It makes me sick."

"And I told you—I don't have a brother anymore. My brother died a long time ago."

Slap.

The blow came without warning, snapping my head to the side. Searing pain exploded across my cheek.

My father's hand was still shaking—whether from rage or the force of the hit, I couldn't tell. He jabbed a finger at my face, his voice thick with barely contained disappointment and venom. "How did I raise such an ungrateful animal? Now that you've latched onto money, you think you're too good for us? All these excuses—you just don't want to acknowledge me! I kept thinking about how to make it up to you. I was such a fool. You're nothing but a heartless, backstabbing ingrate!"

My cheek still stung, but I laughed.

"Make it up to me?"

I looked at him, and twenty years of hatred finally broke through. Cold words struck back, one by one. "How exactly would you do that? Can you turn back time? Bring my brother and Grandma back to life? Make it so the fire never happened?"

"When my brother and Grandma and I were trapped in that fire waiting to die—when I had a fever so high I could barely stand, when smoke tore my throat until I coughed up blood—where were you?"

"I was curled up in Grandma's arms, watching you walk past that door again and again, carrying out strangers."

"I screamed for you until my voice gave out. And what did you say? You told me to hold on a little longer. You said civilians come first."

"But the people dying in that fire were your own mother. Your own flesh and blood." My voice turned to ice. "You want to talk about ingratitude? Between the two of us—who's really the heartless one?"

His face went white. His lips moved, but no sound came out.

Homer finally saw his opening. He let out a cold laugh. "Jennifer, all this talk is just you making excuses so you can sleep at night."

"I was young back then, but I remember it clearly—when they pulled you out, it was Grandma Maya and your brother shielding you with their own bodies. They died for you." His eyes narrowed. "You can't live with the guilt, so you're dumping all the blame on Uncle Kenneth. Isn't that right?"