I glanced around my small bedroom, my eyes landing on the neatly arranged trophies and medals perched on the shelf above my desk.
They gleamed under the warm overhead light—years of effort and dedication condensed into objects that carried so much meaning for me, yet seemed to mean nothing to anyone else.
Next to them sat my schoolbooks, their spines unbroken, their weightless judgment pressing against my shoulders. It was always the same with my parents: the unspoken hierarchy of value. Academics trumped everything.
Trophies and track meets? They were a waste of time in their eyes, mere distractions that pulled me further from the path they wanted me to follow.
The familiar chime of the LineConnect app startled me, breaking my thoughts. I glanced at the screen.
Connecting... still connecting.
The delay shouldn't have felt so monumental, but I'd been holding my breath without realizing it. Maybe they were distracted. Maybe they'd cancel.
Maybe I'd finally be spared the heavy burden of another conversation where I had to prove myself—only to fall short once again.
I stared at the medal in my hand, the weight of it cold and heavy against my palm. Gold, polished to perfection, and stamped with the words "First Place – Regional Track Meet." I should have felt proud. I wanted to feel proud. But as I sat at my desk, waiting for the video call to connect, all I felt was the familiar knot tightening in my chest.
A notification ping jolted me out of my thoughts. The connection was finally stable,
the LineConnect app opened with its cheerful jingle, splitting my screen neatly in two.
The conversation began, and I braced myself, hoping somehow this time might be different.
On one side was Dad, his tie loosened but his posture still rigid, sitting in his spotless office. On the other was Mom, framed by the chaos of her kitchen, stacks of papers and dishes competing for space on the counter. They were miles apart—figuratively and literally—but united in one thing: their disappointment in me.
"Hi," I said, forcing a smile as I tilted the medal toward the camera. "I wanted to share some good news. I won first place in the relay last week! And… and my science teacher, Miss Reyes, said my project was one of the best she's ever seen. She's submitting it for the state competition."
I paused, waiting for their reactions. A smile, a "well done," anything. Instead, there was silence.
Mom was the first to break it. "That's nice, Taryn," she said, stirring something on the stove. "But, sweetie, medals don't mean much in the long run, do they? Colleges aren't going to care about how fast you can run."
My grip on the medal tightened. "It's not just running," I said, trying to keep the tremor out of my voice. "It's hard work. Discipline. I thought—"
Dad cut me off, shaking his head. "Discipline is great, but it needs direction. Look, Taryn, I know you're trying, but sports and competitions won't take you anywhere. You need to focus on what's important. How's your GPA?"
"I…" The words caught in my throat. "I'm doing fine."
"Fine isn't good enough," Mom chimed in, her voice sharper now. "What about your history grade? Did it improve, or are you still struggling?"
"I brought it up," I said quickly. "Last semester, I—"
"You need to do better," Dad interrupted.
"Look at Jia. She's top of her class, with scholarship offers lined up. She's focused, Taryn. She's not wasting time on hobbies."
My stomach twisted. Jia. It always came back to Jia—the golden child, perfect in every way, who could do no wrong. No matter how hard I worked, how many trophies I brought home, I could never measure up to her. And now Devon, my younger brother, was the new point of comparison.
"Devon's been helping me at the shop," Dad added.
"He's only sixteen, but he's already so responsible. It's practical work. Real experience. You could learn a thing or two from him."
I bit the inside of my cheek, feeling my heart sink further. "I'm not Jia," I said quietly. "And I'm not Devon."
They didn't hear me—or maybe they didn't care. Mom was already stirring her pot distractedly, and Dad glanced at his watch like I was cutting into his schedule.
"Look, I've got a meeting," Dad said, waving me off. "We'll talk about this later."
"Work on those grades, Taryn," Mom added, her voice fading as her window flickered. "And try to focus on what matters."
And just like that, the call ended. Their faces disappeared from the screen, leaving me alone with the dull ache in my chest. I stared at the medal on my desk, the familiar weight of disappointment settling over me like a heavy blanket. The knot tightened again, sharper this time.
I shoved the medal into my desk drawer, burying it beneath old papers and notebooks. It didn't matter. They didn't care. I had worked so hard—given everything I had—and it still wasn't enough.
Dinner was quiet, filled with the gentle clinking of chopsticks against bowls.
Grandpa was talking about the weather; Grandma was telling a story about the neighbor's dog. I sat there, smiling and nodding, pretending everything was fine.
"You told your parents about the track meet?" Grandma asked, passing me the soup bowl.
"Yeah," I said, keeping my voice light.
"They're… happy for me."
She studied me closely, her sharp eyes searching for cracks in the surface.
I busied myself with my food, keeping my head down to avoid her gaze.
The warmth of the soup filled my throat, but it couldn't ease the ache in my chest. It wasn't that Grandma didn't care—she always did. It was just that no amount of comforting words could fix the reality of what I felt.
Grandpa chuckled softly, breaking the silence.
"I heard Jia's getting another award," he said, his voice casual but pointed.
"Your parents must be so proud."
There it was again. The shadow of her name always managed to find its way into every conversation, no matter how unrelated.
My grip tightened on my chopsticks, the edges digging into my fingers. "Yeah," I said quietly, forcing the words out. "She's always been amazing."
"And Devon seems to be doing well too," Grandma added, her voice light but with an undertone of pride. "Helping out at the shop, growing up so fast."
I nodded, swallowing the lump in my throat.
"He's doing great," I replied, my voice hollow. Inside, the knot tightened further. It felt as though the walls were closing in, their words suffocating me with every breath.
Grandma reached out again, her hand resting gently on mine.
"You're special too, Taryn," she said softly. "Don't let anyone make you feel otherwise."
I managed a small smile, but her words only deepened the ache. It wasn't about what others said. It was the weight of always feeling like I had to prove it. And no matter how hard I tried, I always seemed to fall short.