"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?"

"Uncle Kenneth is a hero. He sacrificed his own family to save others. You're too selfish to ever understand that."

I stared at his self-righteous face and felt nothing but absurdity.

"Homer." My voice was quiet. "If you'd been the one left to burn that night—abandoned in that fire to die—would you still be standing here running your mouth like this?"

He choked on his words, looked away, said nothing.

There it was. People's joys and sorrows never truly connect. Other people's suffering is just scenery in the distance. It's only when the flames lick at your own clothes that you learn what burning feels like.

"Who called the police?"

Officers walked in and put an end to the circus.

And just as I expected, after the production crew got their hands on our confrontation—after their careful editing and manufactured outrage—I became the target of a full-blown witch hunt.

#JenniferSimmons slapped by her own father# (VIRAL)

#The truth about the fire: Survivor Homer Cobb speaks out# (TRENDING)

#Exposing artist Jennifer Simmons: Luxury lifestyle, cold heart#

Clip after clip, all surgically edited to paint me as a cowardly, jealous, money-grubbing woman.

The production crew arranged exclusive interviews with my father and Homer. On camera, Kenneth wept openly, voice breaking: "A child's failings... are a father's failings. I didn't raise her right. I failed her mother..."

Homer sighed on cue beside him, wearing a mask of guilt: "It's all my fault. If they hadn't been trying to save me that night, Grandma Maya and my brother might still be alive... and my sister wouldn't have turned out like this. Jennifer, please come home. Family matters more than money..."

Their words dripped with 'forgiveness' and 'understanding'—and ignited every ounce of cruelty waiting on the other side of the screen.

The comments section exploded:

"You won't even acknowledge your own father over money? Do you have a heart? Captain Abbott is a hero!"

"Look at Homer—he knows how to be grateful. Now look at you. Living in a mansion, throwing art exhibitions. Doesn't your conscience hurt?"

"Disgusting. Shamelessness really is a superpower."

"Doesn't matter how good your paintings are when you're rotten to the core. She should be blacklisted!"

"I heard her mother went crazy because of her. Should've strangled this one at birth."

My gallery address and home address were doxxed. My phone rang non-stop, flooded with vile curses and threats.

Every morning, I'd find my doorstep covered in red paint, dead rats, and wooden tablets scrawled with curses. Investors pulled out one after another. The award I'd just won was hanging by a thread.

The world became a wall closing in from all sides.

Then my phone screen lit up. A call from my mother—my real mother, Evelyn Simmons.

"We saw everything... Are you okay? Should Dad and I book the next flight back?!"

Warmth spread through my chest. I smiled. "No need, Mom. I can handle this. Don't worry."

Silence on the other end, like she was trying to read my voice. Then, soft but firm: "Alright. But remember—when you're tired, come home."

"I will."

The moment I hung up, a message from Homer popped onto my screen:

"Want to make this go away? Meet me."

I thought about it for a long time. Finally, I decided to go.

What I didn't expect was the location: a real-estate showroom. And standing next to Homer—my father.

"Sis! You made it!" Homer bounded toward me, all smiles. "That oceanview villa you asked me to look into? I found it. Actually, I found two—can't decide between them. Come help me pick!"

He reached for my arm. I pulled back with a frown.

"Homer. What do you actually want?"

Seeing my coldness, he raised an eyebrow. His smile didn't waver, but his voice dropped low.

"Jennifer. Don't you want all that online stuff to go away? I'm getting married. I'm two houses short. Buy them for me, and I'll make your problems disappear. How about it?"