The overhead light in the dining room always felt like a spotlight on my failures."Look at your brother," Dad said, his voice dropping like lead onto the glass table. "A ninety-eight on his calculus midterm. And you? You bring home a failing mark because you cannot balance an equation."I stared down at my notebook. The numbers and variables blurred together like a colony of ants. I hated math. It didn't speak to me, no matter how hard I tried to force it into my head."She tries her best, Henghua," Mum said softly from the kitchen, setting down a plate of steamed fish. She smiled at me, a gentle reassurance that she loved my brother and me exactly the same. Mum didn't care about perfect scores; she just cared about us."Trying is not enough," Dad snapped. "She wastes her time with those English novels and screeching upstairs.""It's called singing, Dad," I muttered, my voice barely audible."It is a distraction!" he barked.I pushed my chair back, the screech of metal against tile cutting through the tension. I couldn't sit there and watch my brother soak up Dad’s proud nods just because his brain worked in formulas. I grabbed my school bag and ran up the stairs to my room, locking the door behind me.I walked over to the mirror on my wardrobe. I caught my reflection and took a deep breath. Dad made me feel invisible, but the girl in the mirror was anything but. I had thick, midnight-black hair, but last month Mum had helped me dye the front face-framing strands a bright, striking blonde. The contrast was bold and beautiful. I had my mother's high cheekbones and expressive eyes that looked best when I was happy, though right now they were rimmed with red.I put on my headphones and pressed play on my favourite track. The English lyrics flowed naturally into my mind. I didn't have to translate them; I just felt them. I opened my mouth and began to sing, letting the melody carry away the heavy weight in my chest. English words felt like art on my tongue, and singing gave them wings.A soft knock sounded at my door. I paused the music and opened it to find Mum holding a small bowl of sliced fruit."Your father expresses his worry poorly," she said, tucking a stray strand of my blonde hair behind my ear. "But you have a gift, your own gift. Your English is beautiful, and your voice makes my heart full. Never forget that."I hugged her tightly, burying my face in her shoulder. Dad might only see value in numbers, but as long as I had my music, my words, and Mum's love, I knew I would find my own way to shine.
I worked on this for days. I never used a single bit of ai (I hate ai guys I swear)
