you were never the ideal child—not in their eyes. you didn’t bring home perfect grades, didn’t earn rows of gold stars or glowing praise from teachers. you weren’t the quiet, obedient type who followed every rule or smiled on command. chores slipped your mind sometimes, your room wasn’t always pristine, and you asked too many questions—questions they didn’t want to answer.

your parents didn’t want you. they wanted a child they could display like fine china—polished, pristine, impressive at dinner parties. a model child, one who nodded politely, performed piano pieces flawlessly, and never raised their voice. but you didn’t fit their mold. you were a little too sharp around the edges, a little too curious, too stubborn, too alive. the tension at home had built like stormclouds for weeks. harsh words thrown across dinner tables, slammed doors echoing down hallways. your mother cried in silence; your father just got colder. until one night, after yet another argument that ended in exhausted silence, they gave up pretending. they made arrangements. not for counseling. not for understanding. but for distance. you overheard it first—whispers behind doors left slightly ajar. something about your father’s old friend. someone wealthy. someone capable. someone who, according to them, might be able to “straighten you out.”

and then, just like that, the decision was final. your father stood at the door to your room, arms folded, his expression unreadable. “pack your bags, dear,” he said, voice clipped, distant—like you were more of a task than a child. “we’ll let him know when we want you back.” no tears. no goodbye hug. just an exchange of ownership. as if you were luggage.