They Left Me Twice, I Stopped Following Chapter 06

They Left Me Twice, I Stopped Following Chapter 06

A week after entering the prep school, the campus paper came to interview me.

The student journalist asked, “Walking five miles to school every day—how long did you keep that up?”

I thought about it.

“Not that long.”

“Didn’t your family drive you?”

My fingers curled slightly.

“They work out of state.”

I didn’t mention Grandma, nor did I mention those days spent alone in an empty house eating cold bread.

The day the article was published, the headline read:

[From a Five-Mile Dirt Road to an Elite Boarding Academy.]

My teacher handed me a copy of the paper.

“Very well written.”

Before I could finish reading it, Mom’s call came in.

“Why are you airing everything out to the school?”

Her voice was tight with anxiety.

“Now people back in town are asking if we abandoned you!”

I paused.

“I never said you abandoned me.”

“But that’s what people will think!”

Dad took the phone beside her.

“We work our fingers to the bone in the city, only to end up with a reputation for throwing our child away.”

“Sienna, after all this schooling, do you still lack basic common sense?”

I looked down at the newspaper.

There wasn’t a single sentence in it blaming them.

It even read:

[With her parents working away from home for years, she learned independence at an early age.]

I pinched the edge of the newsprint.

“Then what was I supposed to say?”

A pause lingered on the line.

Mom spoke up, “Next time anyone asks, just say Grandma was taking care of you the whole time.”

A faint laugh escaped my lips.

Light and bitter.

“Okay.”

That weekend, they actually came to the school campus.

Dad carried a basket of fruit.

Mom held two boxes of organic milk.

When I met them at the gate, my heart still gave an involuntary, quickened thud.

Yet Mom’s very first words were:

“Where is the campus paper editor?”

“We want to clarify things with the faculty.”

My steps ground to a halt.

Dad shoved the fruit basket into my hands.

“Take it.”

The bag was heavy.

I looked down at it.

It was packed with fresh mangoes and dark cherries.

I am severely allergic to mangoes.

When I was little, I ate one by mistake, and my lips swelled so badly I couldn’t even swallow water.

Mom had cried the whole way while carrying me to the local clinic for an allergy shot.

She had probably forgotten.

I handed the basket right back.

“I can’t store this much in the dorm.”

Mom frowned. “We bought this for you and you don’t even want it?”

“Then bring it back for Chloe.”

She froze.

Dad’s expression darkened instantly.

“Why are you bringing your sister into this again?”

I offered no explanation.

While they went to find the advisor, I stood outside the corridor.

Through the door, I heard Mom repeating over and over:

“It’s not that we didn’t care about her.”

“She’s been sensible since she was little. She never required adults to worry about her.”

The advisor remained silent for a moment.

“Being sensible doesn’t mean she doesn’t need anyone.”

The room suddenly fell quiet.

My hand holding my notebook tightened.

Standing outside that door, my nose stung.

Growing up, the phrase I heard most was “Sienna is so sensible.”

Not crying when I fell and got hurt was being sensible.

Walking home alone was being sensible.

Going hungry without complaining was still being sensible.

Turns out every praise they gave me over the years was just a way to convince themselves that they could care a little less.

That evening, Mom sent a text:

[Come out for dinner, we’re waiting for you.]

I checked the time.

Evening study session started in ten minutes.

I replied:

[No need.]

She called almost instantly.

“What’s the big deal about taking one evening off?”

I looked out at the campus buildings, their windows lighting up one by one.

“I don’t want to take the night off.”

With that, I hung up the phone.

And walked into the classroom.