Chapter 6: Viral Villain

A runaway dad, an invisible mom, and him—a college kid with only $50 a month for living expenses.

It was the perfect sob story. Within hours, the clip was trending. By the next morning, it was everywhere—Facebook, TikTok, even the local subreddit. Even my old high school English teacher DM’d me: “Is this really your family?” People were eating it up, some even offering to Venmo him lunch money. I watched the numbers climb, feeling queasier with every like.

The video instantly went viral. In two days, it hit a million likes, and the comments section was flooded with people dragging his real mom.

People love a villain, and apparently, I was it. The comments came fast and furious, each one more dramatic than the last. It was like watching a digital pitchfork mob form in real time.

[What kind of mom is this? The kid really had a rough start. Thank goodness for his grandparents.]

[Had a kid and then dumped it on her parents, even lied and said she was his sister? Isn’t this just trying to rebrand herself so she can marry a decent guy? When asked about the scar on her belly, oh, it’s from an appendectomy.]

[I bet her Instagram handle is definitely ‘NoCilantro4Me (lol)’.]

[Yeah, the dad just vanished too. The real irresponsible one is the dad who disappeared in the first place, okay?]

It was the usual online pile-on—people convinced they knew the whole story from a two-minute clip and a handful of texts. I saw my name trending, felt the knot in my stomach twist even tighter, but mostly I just laughed at the sheer absurdity of it all.

Reading these comments, I couldn’t help but laugh.

I let out a snort that echoed through my apartment, scaring my cat off the couch. There was something darkly funny about the way strangers spun theories, treating my life like a true crime podcast with an open ending.

Hearing my laughter, my friend cursed at me over the phone: "Did you see what people are saying about you online? And you can still laugh?"

I could hear her disbelief, the way she half-scolded, half-marveled at my ability to find humor in a mess like this. I shrugged, even though she couldn’t see me.

I laughed out loud: "Of course! Look at this one: ‘Cut ties fast—if you don’t support her, she’ll behave.’"

It was like watching a sitcom about someone else’s life, except the punchlines were all about me. If you didn’t laugh, you’d cry.

After reading a few comments, I realized they were all pretty much the same—rumors made up out of thin air, one person invents, another believes, everyone copies and pastes, and before long, the whole thing spreads as if it were the truth.

It was like a high school game of telephone, gone digital. I realized then that the truth barely mattered; what people wanted was a story, and they’d make one up if they had to. I wondered if Tyler would ever admit what he’d done—or if he’d just keep playing his part for the crowd.

"What should the next video be about?"

I sent a photo to my friend: "Bleach-blond guy."

She replied with three fire emojis and a gif of Maury Povich shaking his head. I smiled, shaking my own. If this circus was going to keep spinning, at least I could have a front-row seat—and maybe, just maybe, reclaim the story for myself.

I scrolled through the hate, my stomach sinking. Was I really that bad? Or did the internet just need someone to blame?

I cracked my knuckles and opened a new tab. If Tyler wanted a show, I’d give him a finale he’d never forget.