“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.