My Parents Sold My Future For Her Convenience Chapter 09
He looked wrecked, dark circles carved deep under his
eyes, like he’d aged ten years overnight.
When he spotted me, his eyes lit up. He rushed over.
“Celia!”
I stepped back, dodging his outstretched arms. “Whatever
you have to say, say it fast. I’m busy.”
He seemed thrown off. I’d never treated him like this before.
“Celia, everything’s fallen apart since you left. Mom was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. She’s lucid less and less often
now. She just cries and says she’s sorry.”
“Dad quit his job to take care of her and he’s exhausted
every day. He just stares at your room sometimes. They
know they messed up. They’re still your parents… they
raised you…”
I cut him off. “Where’s Bianca?”
Riven’s face twisted with resentment. “She’s out traveling
somewhere, saying she can’t waste her youth. Won’t come
home no matter what.”
I couldn’t help it. I laughed. “You all made her that way.”
He opened his mouth to argue. I held up a hand and stopped him.
I pulled out my phone, tapped a few times. “I did the
math. They spent maybe fifty thousand dollars raising me. I just transferred a hundred thousand into your account. The extra is my last gift as their daughter. Go home. Don’t
come back. I don’t want to see you.”
Riven’s fists clenched. He stared at me in disbelief. “Celia, after all these years, you feel nothing for Mom and Dad?”
I walked past him. The wind carried my voice back. “Once maybe I did. But the last bit died.the moment you changed my application behind my back.”
He started after me. I turned, spread my arms, and
showed him the golden gates of the campus behind me.
“Riven, look. This is where I belong. You almost destroyed
me, and my future. I trusted you once. At least I tried to.
Just head back. Don’t push this all the way to the bitter end, okay?”
His pupils dilated. He froze mid–step, unable to move forward.
As I stepped through the gate, I heard him break down
behind me: “I’m sorry, Celia. I’m sorry. We’re all sorry.”
I walked into the sun and didn’t look back.
Four years of college, I never went home once.
One day, out of nowhere, I logged into a messaging app I
hadn’t touched in years. Some account I’d made back in
elementary school just because everyone else did.
The screen lagged for a second. Then thousands and
thousands of messages flooded in.
From a blank profile picture. Over ten thousand messages,
sent steadily over four years.
Reminding me to wear more layers when it got cold.
Reminding me to bring an umbrella when rain was coming.
Saying that Thanksgiving was near and they’d mailed me
Cornbread Stuffing.
Saying that Christmas was coming and they’d sent my
favorite Pumpkin Pie.
Saying the campus photo of me standing under the maple
tree was beautiful.
Sometimes, tucked in between, a shaky line would appear:
[Who are you?]
Then, days later, a panicked follow–up: [Sorry, wrong number. Can’t unsend it.]
The wording was always careful. Timid. Like they were
scared of upsetting someone.
I stared at the screen. I’d forgotten this account even
existed. Never thought anyone would keep sending
messages into the void, to a person who’d never reply.
I was about to close the app when my thumb slipped and
hit the video call button.
They picked up in one second.