“Fine,” she says with a world-weary sigh, like it’s so annoying that I’m asking her to explain. “Your father . . . well, Star, he just wasn’t a good father. Or a good husband. He was bad for us, honey. Trust me, this is for your own good.”

“I’m supposed to trust you? Are you kidding?”

“You’re too young to understand,” Mom says defensively.

“You are unbelievable,” I mutter. I’m getting very, very angry, but I’m trying to keep my temper under control. I need to hear the whole story before I explode. “What about the letters?” I demand. “Is it true that he’s been sending them for six years?”

Mom hesitates, and I know she’s considering lying.

“Don’t, Mom,” I say.

“Fine,” she says. She sounds almost huffy. Like she has any right to get mad! “Yes. Six years, okay?”

I feel a chill run through me. “My father’s been writing me a letter once a month since I was ten, and you didn’t tell me?”

“He wasn’t a part of our life anymore, Star,” she says. “What good could it do?”

“I would have had a chance to have a dad,” I say. “I would have gotten to know my father. I would have realized six years earlier that he still loves me.”

“He never loved you,” Mom says quickly. “Not the way I do.”

“How can you say that?” I can feel tears prickling at the backs of my eyes. I don’t even bother blinking them away. “How can you say that when you didn’t even love me enough to tell me the truth?”

“It wasn’t a matter of love,” Mom says sharply. “It was a matter of protecting you from someone who didn’t have your best interests at heart.”

“You kept me away from my father because you were so intent on making me famous that you didn’t want anyone to stop you?” I snap.

“No!” Mom exclaims. “That’s not how it is!”

I take in her manicured hands, her new clothes, her expertly tousled hair, her injected face. Everything about her is fake. But at least I always believed that she wanted what was best for me. After all, she’s my mom. Isn’t that what moms are supposed to do? Love their kids unconditionally and try to do what’s best for them?

Instead, she let me down in a way more horrible than I could have imagined.

“I’m done,” I say quietly, surprising even myself.

“Done with what?” Mom asks. “Done with yelling at me? So you’re finally ready to listen?”

I shake my head slowly.

“No,” I say, feeling empty. “I’m done. Done with you. Done with this. Done with all the lies.”

Mom laughs, but it sounds hollow.