My name is Olivia. I am 25 years old today.
But the night my life definitively split in two, I was 17.
I was sitting at the end of the large, waxed oak table in the family dining room, trying to be as inconspicuous as an extra place setting. That evening, my mother had organized what she called a « celebration dinner. » My father’s company had just reached a major financial milestone, and my younger brother had been accepted into an expensive private school.
I, too, had some news: I’d been accepted to a public university with a partial scholarship. But it wasn’t something to celebrate. My acceptance remained folded in my pocket, like a useless secret.
The house buzzed with conversations of smartly dressed adults, glasses in hand, talking about investments and holidays. My role was clear: refill the glasses, clear the plates.
My mother moved around the room like a TV presenter: lingering kisses, overly loud laughter, her own way of turning every sentence into a thinly veiled barb. My father, meanwhile, was checking his phone, savoring the congratulations.
They were playing for success. And I was the mistake in the brochure.
In the middle of dessert, my mother clinked her glass to get some silence. The conversations stopped. The phones went up.
She positioned herself behind my chair, her hands on my shoulders, in an embrace that resembled claws.
« I must present to you our greatest pride, » she announced.
My stomach knotted.
« This is our daughter, » she continued, giving me a slight shake. Then, after a carefully calculated pause: « The family’s mistake. »
A brief silence, then laughter. Then more. A wave of mockery. My father added, pointing to his fork: « The 1% we wish we could have erased. »
The laughter intensified. Someone took a picture.
I stared at the tablecloth, a wine stain near my plate. And I realized that this wasn’t new. It was simply the first time they had said it so clearly, in front of witnesses.
I pushed my chair back. The noise abruptly ended the laughter.
« Don’t be so sensitive, Olivia, it’s a joke, » said my mother.
« You know we love you, » added my father, as if public humiliation could coexist with love.
I got up.
« I’m not laughing, » I replied calmly.
I went up to my room, grabbed a backpack, some clothes, my sketchbook, and the $42 I’d been hiding for months. When I came back downstairs, I put the house key on the table.
« You’ll regret saying it out loud, » I simply stated.
They laughed again.
I went out into the night with $42, a bag, and a tag that I now refused to wear.
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