Fragmented Family Memories

Mom's new apartment smells like takeout curry and Steve's pretentious cologne. He's explaining blockchain to Mom while she nods with that fake interested look she used to give Dad's football stories. Steve works in "tech," which apparently means he knows everything about everything, especially things he's wrong about.

"Neural networks are basically just pattern matching," he says, wielding his fork like a professor's pointer. "Nothing complicated. It's all real easy once you sit down and think about it."

My phone buzzes. It's Dad again. Probably drunk-texting from his basement apartment, where he's spent the last three months mapping out conspiracy theories on a whiteboard. The latest one involves Chinese AI robots, designed by the Lizard People, secretly replacing Supreme Court justices. Last week it was Lizard People using deepfakes to control the weather.

I check the message: "THEY'RE ALL CONNECTED SON!!! The video proved it!!! Deep state uses AI to control our MINDS!!!" Followed by fifteen emoji that make no sense. Three months ago, my father was a respected accountant who thought emojis were unprofessional.

Now he has a YouTube channel with 147 subscribers.

What happened is I made a joke video about the governor being a Venusian reptilian, Three months ago, I was just messing around with free deepfake software for my media studies class. Give the governor some scaly skin, slit-pupil eyes that blinked sideways. Add some buzzwords about "biometric cloaking" and "neural subversion protocols" in my best conspiracy-theorist voice. Pure satire.

Then the Discord servers found it. "Lizard Truth." "AI Exposing the Elite." People were analyzing every frame, debating if the scales were proof or compression artifacts.

Dad found it before Mom could warn him. He called me "brave" and sent it to everyone he knew. By the time Mom told him it was fake, he'd already decided she was part of the cover-up.

"You should come to the office sometime," Steve tells me, like we're buddies. "I could show you what real AI development looks like."

My phone buzzes again. This time it's a photo from Dad: his whiteboard covered in red string and newspaper clippings, with my viral video at the center of the web. I can see empty bourbon bottles in the background. He's started buying the cheap stuff since the separation.

"Sorry, bathroom," I mutter, escaping the table.

In the hallway, I call him. It rings six times before he answers.

"Son! I've figured it out!" His words slur slightly. "The video – your mom moving on so fast – it's all connected. Steve's company is funded by the same people who—"

"Dad," I cut him off gently. "Have you eaten anything today?"

A pause. I hear ice cubes clinking against glass.

"I ordered pizza," he says finally. "But they might have compromised the delivery app."

I flush the toilet for show, then catch myself in the mirror while wiping my eyes with cold water. Three months ago, Dad was teaching me about compound interest over Sunday breakfast. Now he thinks the fridge might be reporting our conversations to the CIA and spends half his day posting conspiracy rants on Youtube. And the drinking has caught up to him. He's sick with it now. He can't leave the house for very long anymore.

Back at the dinner table, Steve is explaining how his company's AI can predict market trends. Mom gazes at him adoringly, and something twists in my stomach. It's not even about him replacing Dad – everyone except my parents saw the divorce coming years ago. No, it's just... Steve. His smug certainty about everything, his startup founder superiority complex, his complete inability to admit he might be wrong about anything. Mom could've found someone kind, or funny, or even just humble. Instead, she found the human equivalent of a LinkedIn motivational post.

She doesn't even like Steve. She complains about him constantly to her girlfriends, their afternoon wine hours stretching longer each week. But she needs the money. Mom likes nice stuff, and Dad cut her off.

They love each other, Mom and Dad, but they were never meant for each other.

The curry grows cold on my plate. Mom touches Steve's arm and laughs at something he's said. My phone lights up with a new message from Dad: "Love you son. Don't trust the toasters."