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Not even my professional legitimacy was preventing people from constructing narratives about me.

I tried not to look at the comments, but the shock kept bringing me back, because some of them were mean. Many were in my defence, which was almost as bizarre, because none of these people knew me, but they were going out of their way to argue with random, faceless commentators about how this was my job.

After a while, I had to turn my phone off because I simply didn’t trust myself not to fixate on the ceaseless back and forth, having found myself somehow trapped in between two opposing camps.

Becka

It’ll blow over by next week, and you can go back to being the invisible journalist.

[Sent 23:28]

Me

Fingers crossed.

Chapter 25

May 7th

Toronto

“Hey Mum,” I said, flopping down onto yet another hotel bed.

“You look tired, Kaiya,” Mum observed, peering at me through my phone screen.

I scoffed. “Gee, thanks.”

“Well, you do. Sorry, love. Where are you now?”

For some reason, I looked down at my watch, as if that might provide the answer to the question, before realising that perhaps I was as tired as I apparently looked.

“Toronto,” I answered after a moment’s thought. “We got in this morning.”

“Blimey, love. You were still in Oakland when I last spoke to you. Are you getting enough rest?”

I winced slightly in guilt. Oakland had been weeks ago.

“Not really,” I said, and then yawned as if to illustrate my point.

“But you’re having fun?”

Even as tired as I was, even though parts of my life were undeniably messy, a smile tugged at my lips. “Yes.”

“Good. Life experiences matter,” she said sagely. And she would know.

Since she’d gone into remission, my mum was all about life experiences. She and my dad had gone on a second honeymoon to the Maldives over Christmas, and were going on a three-week cruise in the summer. There had also been rumblings from my dad that she was talking about getting a tattoo, but that might yet prove to be a joke.

“I like your new hair.” I nodded at the screen, not troubling myself to sit up.

Mum fluffed her hair. “Oh, you do? I wasn’t sure about it…” she trailed off modestly, but the small smile told me she was fishing for compliments.

“Very chic, Mum. Very… purple. Hey! It’s like that poem! You know the one – about the old woman who says she’s gonna learn how to spit, and knock things around with her walking stick!”

“Cheeky bugger!” Mum gasped, outraged. “I’m not old!”

I laughed and rolled onto my front. “I never said you were. You don’t look a day over –”

“Hello love!” Dad’s voice cut in, and I watched, bemused as the phone shifted around until my mum’s purple hair was out of view, replaced with my dad’s crinkled eyes, glasses perched atop his head.