For as long as I can remember, my parents have been divorced.
Grandpa Adams and Grandma Chavez drilled a single, venomous truth into me since childhood: Mom was a villain. An ingrate. She didn't want me. She didn't deserve to be called "mother."
I never believed them. I knew how hard her life had been. I remembered.
The next time I saw her was at Danny Abbott's parent-teacher conference.
I sat there, a child pretending to be an adult, feeling dozens of eyes sizing me up.
"Where is your father?" the teacher asked, frowning.
"He broke his leg," I said quietly.
"And your mother?"
My heart slammed against my ribs. From the corner of my eye, I saw the elegant woman in the front row—known to everyone for her generosity—duck her head. She shrank into her seat, terrified I might point at her.
"You don't have a mom, do you?" the teacher pressed.
A figure shot up from a nearby desk. "Teacher, watch your words! How can you speak to a child like that?"
My head snapped up.
Surprise hit first—someone was defending me. Then came the crushing disappointment.
It wasn't her.
——
The teacher forced a smile. "Mrs. Miller, please, I didn't mean anything by it."
A boy at the doorway snickered. "Teacher, they don't have a mom! Her mom threw her away ages ago."
I pulled out Danny's textbook and stared at the pages. Pretending not to hear. Pretending not to care. The laughter buzzed in my ears like flies.
The words blurred. I couldn't read a single line.
After the divorce, Dad adopted a boy—Danny Abbott. He claimed the family line couldn't be broken, and Danny was the priority. He had to go to school. So I became the adult. I learned to cook, clean, scrub—mimicking everything Mom used to do.
In my memories, Mom was always disheveled. She'd strap me to her back while cooking, muttering curses at my father, asking the empty air why he wasn't dead yet.
I hadn't seen her in six years. The woman sitting a few rows away was a stranger.
She was beautiful now. Smooth skin, expensive clothes, pleasant expression. She smiled and greeted everyone with grace.
Everyone except me.
I waited until the meeting ended and the parents filtered out. The classroom emptied, leaving only silence between us.
Terrified of causing her trouble, I grabbed Danny's schoolbag and turned to flee.
"Camila Acevedo."
The voice stopped me dead.
I stood frozen, legs trembling.
I'd directed this scene in my head a thousand times. I'd watched how other children greeted their mothers and imagined we'd be the same. She would rush over. She would call me Cami, or Little Camila. Maybe even Baby.
But she called me "Camila Acevedo." Full name. Cold. Distant.
"This is your brother."
I turned slowly.
A boy stood beside her—fair-skinned, well-dressed, undeniably cute. She had a new family. A new son.
Nothing like my rehearsals. The air between us was stiff, unfamiliar.
I looked at Alex. Big, bright eyes, just like hers. I wanted to like him. He looked innocent enough. But a dull ache settled behind my ribs, pressing on my lungs.
There was no reason for the pain. It was just there.
"Did your father cut your hair?" she asked, glancing at my uneven, choppy locks.
My hands went to my sleeves. I gripped the fraying cuffs, trying to hide Danny's dirty schoolbag behind my back. I touched the jagged ends of my hair.
"It gets in the way of my chores," I whispered. "I cut it myself."
My mind was a mess of longing and shame. I looked at her, desperate for connection. "If I grow it out long... do you think I'd look a little better?"
Silence stretched between us.
I looked up. She was staring out the window, as if she hadn't heard me at all.
"Do you have anything else to say?" she finally asked.
Her gaze drifted back to me, cool and detached. I opened my mouth, but the words died in my throat.
I had a lifetime of things to say. But she wasn't asking to hear them.
