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“I know, po, but I’ll do whatever it takes.”

“Hay naku.” My dad sighs. In Tagalog, he adds, “Why do these schools offer classes in the arts? They don’t get you anywhere.”

My mom clasps her face into her hands.

What has gotten into you this summer? her voice echoes.

I found myself. That’s what happened this summer.

My dad says, “We did not bring you to this country just so you can be a starving artist. Your Atè listened to us, and she can support herself.”

My fists clench tighter, fingernails digging into my palms. One more truth finally slips out.

“Stop comparing me to Atè. Can’t you tell the difference between your own daughters?”

It’s not until I say it, the words harsh and sassy, that I realize I want to take it back.

“Emilyn Marilliese Padilla, you do not talk to me like that,” my dad erupts. His tone is sharper than it is whenever he argues with Aprilette.

My mom drops her hands from her face, frowning like she’s about to cry. From me wanting to pursue photography or me throwing a snarky comment at my dad, I can’t tell. But it’s clear now that, despite all attempts to avoid it, I’ve disappointed my parents.

“I’m sorry, po,” I whimper. To both my dad and my mom.

“Finish your food,” he says, tone still sharp, “then go to your room.”

“Siggi, po.” I do as I’m told.

Later, after finishing another section of my AP Bio homework, I walk back out, hoping that when I apologize, they’ll accept with a hug.

They’re gone, and so are my photographs.

Chapter Forty-Seven

They say the truth will set you free, but I think it’s just locked me up in my room.

The rest of July is awkward. My conversations with my parents are stilted, peppered with polite questions and short answers. The times there’s silence I can’t decide if I prefer it or not. I finish my homework for AP Bio and AP Government, and I’m slowly working on my AP English homework just to do something. My parents leave me with my phone whenever they go to work, but I don’t bother sneaking out. At one point, Nora comes over to check on me. When she sees me cocooned in my bed, though, she knows to leave me be. Jase is texting me asking me if I’m okay. I reply with one-sentenced truths, and he sends me audio clips of his songs, extended and new, hoping to cheer me up. Nora is texting me saying she hopes my day gets better, sending me BTS memes that win a short laugh out of me.

Now, it’s the beginning of August. I’m about to cocoon myself in my blanket until I hear a gentle knock, knock, knock on my door.

“Anak, can we come in?” It’s my mom, her voice as gentle as her knocks.

“Ohpo,” I say, bracing myself for another scolding.

My parents step into my room and sit beside me on my bed, my mom on my right and my dad on my left. I don’t feel the same awkward tension I’ve been feeling these past few weeks. This atmosphere, I can’t quite describe it.

I glance at their hands, feeling my eyes widen when I see they’re holding my photos. I was certain they threw them away.

“Your tatay and I want you to succeed,” my mom says, gliding her thumb along my bravery photo. “We thought, if you study and work hard like your Atè, then you can support yourself. Aprilette is the kind of Atè I wish I would’ve been to your Tita Maricel.”

“Your Atè’s path is one we’re more familiar with, one we know will guarantee you a job and financial security,” my dad adds. He looks at my passion photo, and I can’t quite decode his expression. “I wish I would’ve followed in your Tito Rommulo’s footsteps, and I didn’t want you to make the same mistakes I did.”

“You’re so obedient, and we’re used to you listening to us.”

“Guess we have to accept that you can think for yourself now.”

They take a second to study my photographs. It feels so surreal, seeing them pay such close attention to my work, my vision.

“And your pictures,” my mom wavers them, the trust photograph on top, “these are all you.”