My parents stole my passport and framed me at the airport—but one customs officer recognized who I really was and exposed everything

on my phone screen, the tiny airplane icon crossing the Atlantic without me. Downstairs, my mother hummed while cooking dinner. My father sharpened kitchen knives. Harper complained about baby nursery decorations.

To them, life had settled back into place.

I was the engine.

Harper was the passenger.

And engines did not get to fly to Italy.

By the second continue reading …