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.

“It’s coming up,” Lily gagged, tears welling.

“Swallow it!” Linda shrieked, spinning around. “Do you know how expensive the cleaning fee is? Don’t you dare throw up in this car!”

“She’s six!” I yelled. “She can’t control it!”

“I don’t care!” Robert barked. “If she pukes on this leather, I’ll leave you both on the side of the road!”

They weren’t worried about the child.
They were worried about the leather.

Lily looked at me, panicked.

She couldn’t hold it.

It happened in seconds—violent, unstoppable. I tried to catch it with my hands, my scarf, anything.

Too late.

It splashed onto her lap.
Onto the floor mat.
And onto the cream-colored leather armrest.

Silence filled the car for one terrifying heartbeat.

Then Linda screamed.

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Chapter 2: The Shoulder of the Road

“You filthy little pig!”

Linda unbuckled and lunged forward. Before I could even process what was happening, her ringed hand came down hard across Lily’s face.

The sound cracked through the cabin.

“Don’t touch her!” I screamed, throwing my arm out, shoving my mother back.

“She ruined everything!” Linda screeched. “It smells! I can’t breathe!”

The car swerved violently. Robert slammed the brakes, fishtailing onto the shoulder of the bridge.