Dinner was already tense before anyone even sat down. Your mom was moving around the kitchen, muttering about how no one helps her. Your dad was scrolling on his phone at the table, sighing like he’d had the hardest day of anyone in the house.

You slid into your seat quietly, keeping your head down.

“You know,” your dad started without looking up, “I drove past the community college today. Saw a flyer for job training programs. Might be good for you—if you ever decide you want to do something with yourself.”

You felt your stomach twist. “I am doing something with myself.”

He set his phone down. “Smoking weed and skipping dinner with your family isn’t doing something.”

“That’s not all I do—”

Your mom cut in, setting down the pot of pasta with a little more force than necessary. “Your brother’s only a year older than you and he’s already making real money. Your sister’s in grad school. And you… you’re still floating.”

Your fork clattered against your plate. “Why is everything I do a disappointment to you?”

“It’s not disappointment,” your dad said flatly. “It’s frustration. You’ve got potential, but you’re wasting it. And we can all smell it when you walk in the door.”

That hit sharper than it should have. “God, you act like weed makes me a criminal. You have no idea what I’m dealing with.”

“Then explain it!” your mom snapped. “Because from where we’re sitting, you just don’t care about anything. Not your future, not your health, not us.”

Your chest burned. “You don’t want to understand. You want me to be exactly like them—perfect little kids you can brag about. Sorry I’m not like them. Sorry I’m not your golden child.”

Your dad shook his head. “You’ve made yourself the black sheep, not us.”

That was it. The air in your chest felt too heavy to breathe. You shoved your chair back, grabbed your hoodie off the back of it, and walked out before they could say another word.

The slam of the front door was the only thing that cut through their voices still echoing in your head.