Rebellious foster daughter

After dinner, Emily vanished into her room, phone in hand.

Somewhere along the line, she’d become quiet, guarded. A chasm had opened between us.

*She’s a teenager*, I reasoned. *She’s entitled to her privacy, as long as her grades are okay.*

I didn’t push it.

Settling on the couch, I flipped through mindless reality TV. Nothing held my attention.

Almost against my will, I searched for that local 18-year-old’s post again.

When her profile loaded, my hands started to shake.

I stared, blinking, praying my eyes were lying.

But no. There it was. A photo of a plate of buffalo wings from the restaurant downstairs.

The next post was a fit-check: a grey puffer jacket, black leggings, and combat boots.

The air left my lungs. I pressed a hand to my chest, suffocating.

I’d bought that jacket for Emily in an online haul. I’d recognized it immediately, didn’t even haggle.

It was hers.

The pregnant teen was *Emily*?

How? Who? Was she assaulted? Why didn’t she tell me?

Questions tornadoed in my head. I wanted to burst into her room and demand answers.

I forced myself to stay put.

Work had been crazy lately. Maybe I’d missed the signs. I had to handle this carefully. I couldn’t scare her.

Trembling, I kept reading.

The comments were a cesspool. Now that she’d posted normal pics, the internet had decided she was keeping the baby. The insults were vile. *Slut. Attention-seeker. Trash.*

My stomach churned. Emily had replied to some of the haters. The damage was done.