I almost laugh.
Mamásigns the paperwork.
I sit in a wheelchair because protocol says I have to, even though I can walk. The humiliation of it is almost worse than the hit.
Outside, the air smells like rain and exhaust.
We get back into the Honda.
Silence fills the car.
My head throbs in slow pulses.
No phone.
No distractions.
Just my thoughts.
Tears slip down into my ears.
I don’t wipe them away.
“Mamá,”I say quietly.
She glances at me but doesn’t speak.
“I’m done.”
Her jaw tightens.
“No,” she says immediately. “No, you don’t give up on me.”
“I’m not giving up.”
My voice is steady now. Clear.
“But I’m not doing this for four more years.”
The blinker clicks.
“You are strong enough?—”
“That’s not the point.”
She looks at me.
I turn to face her fully.
“I can’t keep walking into rooms where they’re waiting for me to fail.”
Silence.
“I’ll transfer,” I say. “Wasn’t there that other school I got into? The one I turned down?”
Her hands tighten on the wheel.
“That’s a boarding school, honey.”
