She isn’t a bad mom. She’s the opposite. My anchor. My push. My reminder that we’ve always been “us against the world.” And everything I’ve done has been to make her proud. Even the doctor plan. Money, stability, success—all the things people said she never had.
But where did that leave me?
I’ve never had fun. Not real fun. I studied, planned, organized, excelled... all for the sake of proving to others I wouldn’t be like her. The girl who got pregnant at sixteen and dropped out of high school. The one people whispered about. The one who fought her way back anyway.
But what’s so wrong with her life?
She got her GED. She found work as a receptionist. She’s studying to be a dental hygienist now. She raised me alone, and she did it with grit I could only dream of. She’s badass. And I want to be a badass in my own way. Not the way everyone else thinks I should be.
Somewhere along the line, I let people convince me I had something to “prove.” That being different made me better. That chasing their idea of success made me special.
Well, fuck that. And fuck their opinions.
I’m done living a life scripted by everyone else.
The problem?
Now that I’ve torn the script apart, I don’t know what comes next.
Didn’t think that far ahead, did I?
Sure, Mom. Let’s have this heart-to-heart in the middle of nowhere. Perfect timing.
Maybe I can take another route?
“Statistically, around twenty-three percent of students don’t return for their second year, and thirty percent change their major within the first three.”
“You and your stats,” she grumbles and shakes her head. “Okay, but why not keep going until you figure it out?”
“I’m not going to school just to ‘figure it out.’ I’m not sitting in limbo while I try to untangle my whole life.”
“You already knew what you wanted.”
“No.Youknew what I wanted. Not me.” Why is that so hard for her to see?
“So you’re going to, what, do random things until you ‘figure it out’?” She throws up air quotes like they personally offend her. “Like signing up to volunteer at Farmer Fred’s? You hated that festival growing up.”
She’s not wrong. Back then, it was just another thing I saw as a distraction from my studies. Plus, it was lame. All it had was a corn maze and baked goods. No real entertainment. But, maybe it can be better?
Farmer Fred’s Annual Pumpkin Spice Festival tanked years ago. I barely remembered it existed until I saw that sad little poster taped to a phone pole downtown. Volunteers needed. Revival event. One weekend only.
It felt easy. Low stakes. Something formefor once.
“I thought it’d be nice to do something for the community.” And get twelve blessed hours away from you.
She huffs. “Probably just to get away from me.”
“I mean . . . it’s a bonus.” I smirk.
She snorts. A real one. Her mouth twitches like she’s fighting a smile. Her breath leaves her in a long exhale, warm and heavy in the small space between us.
For a second, she stops being The Person I’m Letting Down and becomes my mom again.
We slip into silence. The car hums along until an old sign rises out of the fog like something from a bad horror flick.
FARMER FRED’S FANTASTIC FARM — FIVE MILES AHEAD
The letters peel and curl like they’ve tried to flee the wood and failed. A scarecrow slumps beside it, one arm torn halfway off, straw guts leaking like it’s been chewed on.
