Lina sat cross-legged on her bed, the dim glow of her desk lamp casting long shadows across the room. Her report card lay crumpled in her lap—red ink glaring up at her like an accusation. Math: C-. History: D. Literature: C. The numbers weren’t just bad; they were disappointing. She could already hear her father’s voice in her head—calm, measured, disappointed: “We expect better, Lina. You know that.”
She folded the paper in half, then in half again, trying to make it smaller, less real.
The door opened without a knock.
Lina’s heart lurched. She shoved the report card behind her back just as her mother stepped inside, balancing a small tray.
“Sweetheart?” Her mother’s voice was soft, concerned. “I noticed you didn’t come down for dinner. Everything okay?”
Lina forced a smile—wide, war
