My daughter, Josie, lives with me during the week and spends every other weekend with her dad, Greg.
Two years ago Greg married Paige. Paige is twenty-nine, very pretty, and very online. She runs a family account called @PaigeMomsBest, with 2.1 million followers. Matching outfits. Morning routines. “A Day in the Life of a Bonus Mom.”
I didn’t follow it. I didn’t want to.
Then, last month, a coworker held her phone out to me at lunch. “Isn’t this your daughter?”
It was Josie, sitting in a bathtub full of ice cubes, crying, while a voice off-camera laughed and said, “Ten more seconds, baby! Do it for the followers!”
The caption read: My daughter is SO brave #icechallenge
My daughter. Paige had never once called Josie her daughter in person.
I called Greg. “It’s just content,” he said. “Kids love it. You’re only jealous because Paige is a better mom on camera than you are in real life.” Then he hung up.
That night I scrolled through the account until 3 a.m. Josie eating a ghost pepper. Josie “surprised” by a fake spider. Josie sobbing because Paige told her the dog had died, then laughing, “Just kidding! Prank!” Eleven million views. The comments were full of hearts.
The next Saturday was Josie’s spring dance recital. Greg had her for the weekend, but he’d agreed to bring her. I got there early with flowers.
Paige swept in with a ring light, a phone on a gimbal, and her own matching pink dress. She didn’t say hello. She looked at my sneakers and laughed. “Cute. Did you come from work?” Then she filmed herself fixing Josie’s bun backstage. “Bonus mom duty! Somebody has to make her look presentable.”
Greg stood behind her holding a tripod.
Before the show, Josie asked to go to the bathroom. She grabbed my hand and pulled me along. The moment the door closed, she started to cry.
“Mommy, I’m so hungry.”
“Baby, didn’t you eat breakfast?”
She shook her head. “I’m not allowed to eat until the video gets a million views. That’s the rule. Paige says I’m getting too chubby for the camera.”
I knelt in front of her, my hands shaking. Then Josie tugged down the collar of her costume. A bruise marked her shoulder. Dark purple. Four fingers wide.
“She holds me there,” Josie whispered. “So I don’t come up too fast.”
“Come up from where, baby?”
“The bathtub. With the ice.”
I couldn’t breathe.
