The next morning, the academy feels louder than usual, the kind of buzz that comes from a mix of excitement, dread, and way too many people in one place. Parent’s Day.
I’m sitting cross-legged on my bed, trying to braid my hair without pulling it out entirely. The delicate strands keep slipping through my fingers, probably because I can’t focus. My mind keeps circling back to the same question: Will they show up?
My parents.
The last time I saw them, my mom reeked of cheap whiskey, slurring through some excuse about how hard my “condition” was on her. My dad wasn’t even present with when Mom dumped me at the train station.
Not once did he reach out to check on me or well… anything.
And yet, here I am, holding on to this stupid, fragile hope that maybe—just maybe—they’ve changed. That
