Chapter 1: The Divorce Begins

My dad was the golden boy of Savannah’s old-money crowd—polished, untouchable, the sort who’d never get his hands dirty. My mom? The daughter of a local fishmonger, as out of place among the Fosters as a shrimp boat at a yacht club. Nobody in Savannah ever thought their marriage would last. When I was seven, everything changed: Dad got in a car accident and lost his memory. He woke up in a rage, shouting for a divorce. His voice was cold as river stone. “I must have been out of my mind to have such weird taste as to marry a fishmonger’s daughter.”

The faint tang of gardenias and bourbon hung in the air, mixing with the buzz of whispered judgments. Savannah’s old-money set practically vibrated with the news. The Foster family was secretly thrilled, their faces just a little too eager. They summoned his "white whale"—the woman Dad had always secretly loved—to come and claim her prize. The hospital room door swung open and in strode a woman in neon pink rain boots and a floral rubber apron. Dad sucked in a sharp breath, voice low and electric. “White whale, you’re really something.”

But it was just my mom, coming straight from the market, the scent of fresh-caught shrimp and sea spray clinging to her, stubborn as her pride. Even with saltwater and scales on her clothes, she walked in with her chin up, refusing to shrink beneath the stares of Savannah’s finest. The nurses, whose voices floated from porch swings, sticky with the scent of honeysuckle and spilled sweet tea, fell silent as she entered.

My mom can’t speak. After she stepped in, she and my dad just stared at each other in a hush so thick I could barely breathe. I stood by Dad’s bedside, listening as he said again, almost to himself, “White whale, you’re really something.” I held my breath, searching Dad’s face for a flicker of the man I remembered.

Her eyes shimmered, begging to say something her mouth couldn’t, her hands twisting the apron strings. Her throat clenched like someone hit mute on her soul. The tension made my chest ache.

The Foster family pressed in, not quite catching his words, murmuring behind gloved hands.

“Alex, did you see? You even dared to marry a woman who smells like fish.”

“Her mama read palms down by River Street—bet she put some hoodoo on you.”

“Samantha Young is a Harvard grad, she’s waited for you all these years. Finally, God has answered our prayers...”

Their voices had that syrupy Savannah drawl, gossip sliding through the air like sweet tea poured over ice. I caught Uncle Jeff rolling his eyes, his wife dabbing lipstick, inching closer to the spectacle.

Grandpa Frank stamped his cane on the hospital linoleum, each thud like a verdict. “The Foster Group’s legal team already drafted the papers. Sign them now.”

There was a hush as he stared my dad down. In that room, Frank Foster was still king, even if his empire was crumbling.

Through the glass, I caught a glimpse of Dad’s so-called "white whale"—the one outside the door. Her lips curled in a perfect smile, all elegance and pearls, nothing like my mom, who was still in her market apron, splattered with fish scales. Judging by the way she held herself, she probably knew exactly what was happening.

She sniffed and took the papers. Dad pressed his hand down, voice cold. “Wait, the one I married is you?” There was a strange, empty ache in his eyes. They each gripped a corner of the agreement, his knuckles white. I knew Dad was always good to us. What did amnesia really prove?

But the next second, he scowled at the asset split. “Five million?” His gaze landed on my mom with contempt. “I’ve been disgusted for so long, and you still want to take both the food and the money?” He signaled to Mr. Lewis, his secretary. “Redraft the agreement. Just pay her what a nanny would get—compensate her for her time, nothing else.”

Mr. Lewis didn’t look up, scribbling with his Montblanc pen—the kind only the Fosters bought. His hand trembled, then tightened on the pen, sweat beading on his brow, but he wouldn’t dare speak with Grandpa Frank watching.

The Foster relatives all breathed a sigh of relief. I tugged at my mom’s sleeve, meeting Samantha Young’s gaze outside the door. She mouthed, “Little trash bug, go back to where you came from.” Her words hit like a slap, my cheeks burning as if everyone in the room had heard. Her face was smug behind the glass, like she’d already won.