Hello. You may have frequently heard my name in the news these past few weeks. You may have heard it uttered as if I am a criminal or a reprehensible celebrity having a breakdown, which is what the broadcasting network would have you to believe. However, I am neither. I am fighting for my rights, and today, I am fighting for my reputation and future. The public needs to know the truth, and you need to know my story.
My name is Araminta Fox, and I’m a Hollywood Baby. I was born for the show Kat’s Out of the Bag, where a widower father (Miles Swift) raises his feisty daughter—the beforementioned Kat. Shenanigans ensue. In season six, he marries an engineer named Emily (Delilah Banks), and in season seven, they have a daughter together (Araminta and Anastasia Fox). The show was on for three seasons after our birth. I don’t recall a single moment of it.
As you know, Miles Swift went on to become a big action star, garnering fame, fortune, and esteem beyond the sitcom world. He hasn’t spoken to my sister or me since the end of Kat. Delilah Banks has had a few roles here and there. She sends us cards on our birthday and holidays. When we were young, it was always “To my Precious Girls.” Now, it’s “To my Talented Araminta” and “To my Brilliant Anastasia.”
Beth Shepherd, our caretaker, always made a big fuss over these cards when we were kids. But she was careful to never call Delilah our mom; it would place too much emotional burden on the actress. Other children might have had mothers, I later learned, but we had a Beth. She was enough. Mostly.
We had acting coaches and booked small gigs as far back as I can remember. At age six, we landed a lead role in a new show, one where the protagonist has supernatural powers. I remember the night before the first day of filming, Beth readied us to see Ross Declan, the CEO of Fox Television and our legal guardian. She brushed our hair and tidied it gently, first Ana’s, then mine.
Our bedroom was a light pink. Both of our twin beds had squishy pastel pillows and translucent canopy curtains above. Against one wall, we had a white, mirrored vanity table. We each had a small desk, as well. It was all perfect for little princesses.
That evening, I sat on the end of my bed, feet hanging down, while Beth braided my hair for bed. Anastasia bounced around the room, her hair already neatly French braided. We both wore white nightgowns with pink trim.
“Mr. Declan is coming to see you tomorrow morning,” Beth said to us. “He is your primary guardian, and he cares about you very much. He wants to wish you good luck before your first day of filming!”
“What’s a guardian?” I asked.
“It’s someone who is in charge of a child. You’re his responsibility.”
“Is Mr. Declan our dad?” my sister questioned, squeezing the hem of her skirt tight.
“No, he’s not your dad, baby girl. But he’s there to take care of you.”
“But you take care of us, Beth,” I stated. “Doesn’t that make you our guardian?”
“No,” she began, pulling my braid through
