She nodded slowly. “Cool. Cool.”
There was a long pause.
So. The private school. The recitals. The endless tutoring. The trips to Europe. All funded by money stolen from a dead woman’s savings. And now? It wasn’t even paying off.
It wasn’t satisfying in the way I thought it would be. I didn’t feel smug. Just… done.
She looked like she wanted to say more, but I smiled politely and walked away.
A few months later, I bumped into my dad. Total accident. I was in town for a wedding, and he was picking up groceries. He looked older. Not tragic, just tired.
“Saira,” he said, like he couldn’t believe it. “You look… different.”
“I feel different,” I said simply.
We made small talk. He asked what I was doing, where I lived, if I had a boyfriend. I kept it short. Then he cleared his throat.
“I just wanted to say… I wasn’t fair to you.”
He nodded. “I thought I was making the smart call. Lila was struggling, and you seemed… tough. Like you’d be okay.”
That made me angrier than I expected.
“Yeah, I was okay. Because I had to be. Not because you gave me a choice.”
He looked down at his shoes. “I’m sorry. For what it’s worth.”
It wasn’t worth much. But I guess he needed to say it. And I needed to hear it.
We didn’t hug. We didn’t cry. But when we parted, I felt lighter.
Now I’m 27. I work for a student access program that helps underrepresented kids navigate college admissions. I teach workshops. I mentor. I use every ounce of grit I built during those ramen-fueled years.
