Sour patch kid

“My water broke!” my mom screamed. “UCH!”

“Let’s go to the hospital then!” replied my dad.

They got in the car and drove to the hospital…AWAAAWAAAA! At 12:05 a.m. on June 11, I was born in Saint Luke’s Hospital.

“She is going to have a better life and I know it—all of our sacrifices were worth it,” said my mom, while holding me. Up to this day my mom still says the same thing to me. To be honest I didn’t really care about that. I didn’t find much importance in that up until seventh grade. I wasn’t the worst kid, but I was surely not the best.

Even though I “skipped” study hall almost everyday, when I felt like skipping, I still did my homework and classwork in my other classes. The problem was I talked too much during class and I procrastinated a lot. Also most of my classes were mundane. I was like a Sour Patch Kid gummy; at first I was sour but at the end I was sweet.

I remember my mom sitting on the kitchen table. It was as silent as a desert, her back curved as she was opening my report card. I was dying on the inside because I knew what was coming next.

Mija, what is going on?” my mom asked. “I made so many sacrifices for you, and you repay me like this?”

I felt like someone stabbed me in the heart. I started crying waterfalls, I could see my mom’s disillusioned face.

“I’m sorry, mom. I didn’t mean to disappoint you like that, I promise that I will raise my grades up no matter what it takes,” I replied.

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