Drying my eyes with the sleeve of my sweater, I ask, “Are you proud of me?”
“Of course!”
The harmonized exclamation echoes. Both their stares are pointed, looking at me as if I’ve asked the most ridiculous question in the world.
I start chipping at the polish on my fingers. If they thought that question was crazy, they’re going to hate the next one.
“Would you still be proud of me if I failed a class this semester?”
Before they can answer, I shrink into myself. I’ve never failed anything before. Too driven by the need to be their pride and joy, and too scared of what university professors would think of their daughter slipping in academics.
But at least, after learning they don’t want me straining myself with the thought of being perfect, they may allow me some grace.
They share a glance, nod at one another in a silent agreement, then turn to me.
“We’ll be proud of you no matter what, as long as you’re living life for yourself.”
My dad pats my head lovingly, smiling. Mom smiles too, but a bit straighter.
“We would like to know why you’re failing a class, though.”
Being an overachiever means I’ve never had to explain I’m bad at something. Nervously, I avoid eye contact and speak in a low voice.
“I might not be all that good at writing. Which, honestly, is my fault, because why would I pursue a writing degree if I didn’t study it in undergrad?” The heat of their stares are burning intomy skin, but I can’t bring myself to look at them. “It was a bad idea on my part. I’m sorry.”
The dread of my parents realizing they gave up their retirement plans for nothing fills my chest. Old habits die hard.
Slowly, my mom asks, “Did you want to study writing in undergrad?”
I can’t bring it in myself to lie to them. I am my parents’ daughter.
“Yes.”
“Then why didn’t you?”
“I figured psychology would be the most practical. I could apply that degree in so many different fields and you wouldn’t have to worry about my post-grad success.” I hang my head. How ironic. “It was the sensible choice.”
“But not one that made you happy.” Dad deadpans. I don’t think he’s trying to be funny.
I shake my head. When my mom sighs, and I gather the courage to look at her, she’s the one with a smile digging into her cheeks. My dad is staying stone-faced, and my mom is breaking into a grin.
“Five years of undergrad, wasted.”
“Mom!”
Unexpectedly, she laughs. From the other side, my dad laughs, too.
I didn’t think it’d be funny. All things considered, I did waste five years on a degree I don’t want any association with. I took into account what I thought would win my parents’ praises and nothing else.
Every presumption I’ve created in my head should point at my mom and dad being furious for what was sacrificed. Ultimately, for nothing. But instead, they laugh.
Through their giggles and chuckles, it fully dawns on me that they don’t care about the degree, the classes, or the grades. They care about me.
While the life-altering realization settles on me, and the last lingering traces of guilt disappear, my mom pulls me back into her chest.
“From now on, only do what makes you happy. Even if you fail. Even it inconveniences someone. Do what you need to do for you.”
My parents, the best mom and dad I could ask for, wrap me in a hug and reassure me they understand. And that it’s okay if I fail sometimes, because I’m still their daughter, and that’s enough for them.
