The school gates opened that Friday afternoon, and for once, I wasn't in a rush to leave. But the car was already waiting.
The ride home felt longer than usual. Every turn reminded me of expectations I hadn't met, promises I didn't fulfill, and a version of myself my parents thought they were investing in.
When we pulled into the driveway, the house looked the same — big, beautiful, and cold.
My mom welcomed me with a smile and warm hug, like she'd missed me more than anything.
But my dad?
He was in the living room, reading the newspaper.
I greeted him quietly.
He didn't look up right away.
Then, with his eyes still on the paper, he said, "So… seventh place?"
I froze. "Yes, sir."
A pause.
Then he folded the paper slowly, set it aside, and finally looked at me. "That's not what we agreed."
My heart sank. "I know. I tried."
He stood up and walked past me toward the staircase. "Trying isn't enough. Not when you've been given every opportunity."
Before he disappeared upstairs, he added, "We'll talk later."
And just like that, I was a child again — small in a house too big, full of silence and walls.
I sat alone in the dining room until my mom came in, carrying a glass of juice. She sat beside me and held my hand.
"I'm proud of you," she said quietly.
I didn't answer.
"I know your father can be… tough," she continued. "But he's scared. Scared that you won't become the version of you he imagined. But I see the version of you that's growing — and it's beautiful."
I nearly cried.
Later that night, I got a call from Tope. I didn't even say hello.
"Are you okay?" she asked softly.
I nodded even though she couldn't see me. "Yeah. I just… I wish he saw me."
"He will," she said. "Maybe not today. But he will."
And in that moment, I knew — the visit home didn't fix everything, but it showed me something important:
Sometimes, we don't need approval to move forward. We just need clarity, courage — and someone who sees us.