My parents were obsessed with having a “perfect” vacation. When my six-year-old got carsick on the highway, the mask fell. My mother slapped her and shoved a plastic bag at her, screaming, “Don’t ruin my leather seats, you little pig!” I tried to stop her—she shoved me back.

Chapter 1: The Perfect Vacation

Rain slammed against the windshield of the 2024 Range Rover Autobiography, loud and unforgiving, like handfuls of gravel hurled by an enraged sky. Inside the vehicle, however, the storm existed only as atmosphere—a cinematic backdrop to a scene of carefully curated perfection. The cabin smelled of conditioned Windsor leather, expensive perfume, and that faint metallic note that always seemed to accompany entitlement that hadn’t been earned.

My father, Robert, gripped the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles had turned white. He drove the way he lived: aggressively, impatiently, and with the unshakable belief that rules were optional for men like him. We cut through Friday afternoon traffic on I-95 like a blade, slicing between trucks and sedans as he pushed the speed higher.

“We’re going to be late for check-in,” he muttered, glancing at his wrist. A Rolex Submariner gleamed there—an excellent replica I’d bought him three Christmases ago after he’d sulked for weeks about his friends owning better watches. He treated it like the real thing, flashing it at valets and waitresses alike. “If we miss sunset cocktails, the entire aesthetic of the first night is ruined. The lighting won’t be right.”

In the passenger seat, my mother, Linda, was busy shaping her version of reality. The visor mirror was down, the vanity light on, as she applied a third coat of coral lipstick. She pressed her lips together, studying her reflection for any hint of aging that might betray the image of eternal youth she curated online.

“Robert, just drive,” she snapped without looking away from herself. “And stop jerking the wheel. You’re making it impossible to line my lips.”

Then she turned—not toward me, but past me—fixing her gaze on the backseat.

Her eyes landed on my six-year-old daughter, Lily.

Lily was small for her age, delicate, with large, anxious eyes staring out at the gray blur of trees rushing past. She wore a bright yellow raincoat and matching galoshes.

Linda’s expression tightened. “Sarah, why on earth did you dress her like that?”

I lifted my head from my phone, where I’d been quietly checking work emails. “Like what, Mom?”