Page 33 of You've Got Hate Mail
Cricket laughs another humorless laugh. “I finally did something bigger and better than my two sisters, so you’d think they would’ve been. But they saw some of the comments about how I’d clearly been raised wrong, and—well, can you blame them? Parents always do their best, right?”
“No. No, they don’t.”
“There were some people from my yoga class who checked on me, but I’m pretty sure at least two of them were responsible for hate mail under aliases,” Cricket adds in a whisper.
“Oh, Cricket.”
I squeeze my eyes shut against the heat in them.
This is the other reason I’ve been avoiding the house.
I finally have my footing again.
The past seven years have been a lot.
First it was a shotgun wedding after those two pink lines, then Ava with a rough pregnancy followed by postpartum depression and us with a new baby.
I had a chaotic job and wasn’t around enough to help.
But then she found the corner of the internet where she could talk about using health and fitness as tools for her battle, and she exploded in popularity. Found a community. Found a purpose.
She was happy.
I was happy.
Lav was happy.
Life was good. Not perfect—us happytogetherwas something we were still working on—but good.
And then came the cancer diagnosis.
The final sucker punch in Ava’s short life, made worse by the internet war over us that moved to our front lawn.
We moved here, she died, and my in-laws immediately sued me for custody of Lav, trying every angle and dragging it out when one strategy after the other failed for them.
It hasn’t been a full year since they finally dropped the suit.
So while here ishome, where it’s been a haven for me in the worst of times, it’s also a place where the women who arrive regularly remind me of Ava and our own nightmares.
I’ve selfishly needed time tonothave that in my face.
Cricket being here, beingright here, in the darkest immediate aftermath of her moment of notoriety, with parents like Ava’s—this isnotwhat I want.
I don’twantto feel for what she’s going through.
I don’twantto remember why women come here.
I don’twantto face that I probably haven’t fully processed the toll the past seven years took on me.
“We all get the hate, right?” Cricket says in a small voice that reminds me of Lav when she has a nightmare and then feels guilty for waking me, no matter how patient I try to be about it.
“We do, but we shouldn’t,” Ginny replies softly.
“I’m sorry. I should’ve asked if you’re okay talking about this. I know it happened to you too, and it can be triggering.”
“I’ve had a few years to get over it,” Ginny says wryly.
“But you—you’re still here,” Cricket whispers.
