Chapter 22: What I Want to Say to Mom and Dad 2

Chapter 22: What I Want to Say to Mom and Dad 2

Generally speaking, most students would write standard, predictable essays filled with cliché phrases: "You've worked so hard," "I love you," or "Thank you for your sacrifice."

Under normal circumstances, grading teachers skimmimg through hundreds of papers would glance at the title, read the opening paragraph, skim the conclusion, and assign a mediocre score in the low twenties without bothering to read the body text.

Yesterday, however, while studying Chloe's leather-bound notebook, I had paid special attention to her section on essay methodology.

First, the title had to be fresh and original—it needed to hook the grader's attention instantly. If the opening impression was boring, even brilliant prose would struggle to earn top marks.

Second, the emotional core had to be genuine. It didn't require overly flowery rhetoric or complex literary devices. As long as the writer expressed raw, authentic feeling backed by a striking perspective, a high score was almost guaranteed.

Reading her notes had opened my eyes. Chloe didn't just write well; she understood the exact psychology of the grading committee. That was why her essays consistently scored above thirty-five out of forty, frequently landing full marks!

If I hadn't studied her notes, I probably would have written a generic, forgettable essay and walked away with twenty points at best. But now, I had her framework guiding me.

An original title? Authentic emotion?

A faint smile touched my face. I couldn't write elaborate, poetic prose yet, but I could write with complete honesty about what had happened at home last night.

Picking up my pen, I wrote down my title:

“I want to say to my parents—I was wrong!”

It wasn't flashy, but it was raw, direct, and immediately intriguing.

Taking a deep breath, I began pouring my heart onto the paper:

My family is warm and humble. I have a gentle father who is secretly terrified of his wife, a hot-tempered mother with a sharp tongue but the softest heart in the world, and me—a son who has spent years anchored at the absolute bottom of his class.

In the past, neighbors and relatives would boast about their children in front of my parents, bragging about top test scores and bright futures. My parents would smile politely, masking the quiet envy in their eyes. But when we returned home, my father would never scold me; he would gently encourage me to try harder next time.

My mother, on the other hand, would lecture me mercilessly before walking straight into the kitchen to cook my favorite dinner.

I had completely given up on myself. Neither my father's quiet encouragement nor my mother's fiery lectures could spark a desire in me to study. Eventually, my parents slowly accepted reality. They stopped expecting miracles and quietly resigned themselves to the fact that their son was destined to fail.

.

.

.

Until last night, when my older cousin Sierra casually pointed out something that shattered my indifference:

“Aunt Victoria, you have gray hairs!”

Those six words pierced through my heart like a dagger.

I am my parents' only son. Why had they spent decades breaking their backs running a neighborhood convenience store? Why did they work from dawn until dusk, scrimping on themselves every single day? Was it not to give me a decent life and a chance at a real future?

And what had I done in return?

I had squandered my youth, indulged in laziness, and treated my own future like a joke. How selfish had I been?

My mother isn't even forty years old, yet hard labor and constant anxiety over my future have already turned her hair gray. They aren't young anymore. They are growing old.

At that moment, the fog in my mind finally cleared. I realized how profoundly wrong I had been all these years.

The very next day, I asked Sierra to help me study. When my parents saw me sitting at the kitchen table with textbooks open, I saw smiles on their faces that I hadn't seen in years.

My father even sneaked into the bedroom, pulled out two hundred dollars from his hidden savings stash, and slipped it into my hand so I could buy study guides.

My mother—who usually flew into a rage whenever she caught my father hiding money—didn't say a single harsh word. Instead, she quietly pulled another two hundred dollars from her purse and handed it to me.

Holding those four hundred dollars in my trembling hands, a suffocating weight settled in my chest.

They had never given up on me.

I was the one who had given up on myself.

From that moment on, I swore I would drive away my self-doubt, my cowardice, my laziness, and my excuses. I would fight with everything I had.

So today, on this exam, I want to say one thing to my parents:

I was wrong!

From this day forward, I will correct my mistakes. I will never disappoint you again. I will bring home grades that make you proud!

I placed my pen on the desk, feeling as though every ounce of energy in my body had been poured into the page.

This essay wasn't a fictional exercise. It was my real life, my real home, and my deepest regrets.

Before I even realized it, warm tears slipped down my cheeks, splashing silently onto the desk and soaking into the corner of my answer sheet.