Ah, high school graduation. That special day when you cap off years of angst with a fancy piece of paper. A time for ugly gowns and even uglier friendships. Here’s to hoping you didn’t vote for the class president because, spoiler alert, that person ends up selling insurance in Des Moines.
Anyway, Britt was no exception to the mixed bag of graduation emotions. She teetered between feeling like the queen of the world and the peasant left behind by her subjects. Britt was beyond proud of herself for finishing high school. But hold on, this isn’t a Disney fairy tale where the parents are always there cheering you on. Britt’s concerns over whether her mom and stepdad would even show up gnawed at her like a squirrel with a vendetta.
As she mingled with her fellow graduates, she kept glancing around like a paranoid meerkat. “They’re just late”, she told herself. “Or stuck in traffic. They’ve got to show up, right? Right?”
But as name after name was called, hope dimmed faster than a dollar store flashlight. When her name finally reverberated through the auditorium, she walked up to the stage donned in fervent optimism. She plastered on a smile, hoping to spot mom’s beam or stepdad’s enthusiastic thumbs-up. Instead—spoiler alert again—they were as absent as honesty in politics.
“They have to be somewhere,” she deluded herself while scanning for familiar faces. She dove into her phone, where a message shattered whatever illusions she had left: “Sorry, we couldn’t make it. Something came up with your stepsister. We’ll celebrate later. Congrats!” Ah yes, because nothing screams ‘Congrats’ like a text of abandonment.
Her immediate reaction was worry because, God forbid, something catastrophic had happened to her stepsister. But let’s not kid ourselves. Iris, her step-sister, was about as attention-craving as a reality TV star. What could it be this time? Uploaded another TikTok flop?
As Britt marinated in her pity soup, a comforting hand landed on her shoulder. It was Justin, her prom date and occasional voice of common sense. “Hey, you alright?” he inquired, even though the emotional typhoon on her face clearly screamed otherwise.
Britt couldn’t verbalize her despair. Words were replaced by waterworks in the form of tears big enough to fill a swimming pool.
“Sweetheart, come here,” Justin’s mom invited her into a warmth that can only be described as motherly hospitality. “You’re not alone, we’re here for you.” They poked, prodded, and pulled every string to make sure Britt wasn’t swallowed by solitude.
After absorbing the impromptu TLC from Justin’s family, Britt trudged back home, dreaming of parental redemption. Fancy seeing her mom and stepdad lounged on the couch, looking as relaxed as sloths in a spa. Britt’s simmering anger boiled over. “Where were you guys?” she demanded, her voice shaking.
Her mother couldn’t even maintain eye contact. “Your stepsister broke a nail. She threw a massive fit, making us take her to the beauty salon immediately. She was inconsolable, Britt.”
Britt’s world froze in disbelief. “A broken nail? You missed my graduation for a broken nail-induced meltdown?” She spat the words out, each syllable laden with acidic disbelief.
From the peanut gallery, Iris mumbled, “It was an emergency for me.” Of course, because why wouldn’t it be?
Britt had known her entire life how skewed her parents’ priorities were. But this was the summoning of every inappropriate Halloween ghost and ghoul. “Do you even understand what you’ve done?” she yelled, rage for once taking full control.
Unable to muster an appropriate response, her mother stuttered, “Britt, we’re sorry. We’ll celebrate later, I promise.” Because promises are easier to break than nails, it seemed.
She finally decided that the best therapy would be distance. Dialing Justin’s mom with hesitant fingers, she barely got the words out. “Good evening, Mrs. Anderson, I need a favor. I…I don’t know how to ask…”
“Speak, Brittany. What is it?” Mrs. Anderson coaxed with a voice dipped in honey.
“Can I stay with you guys for a while? I’ve had a fall-out with my family and I need to get out of here.”
Without skipping a beat, Justin’s mom replied, “Of course, sweetheart. You’re always welcome here.”
With her essentials packed, Britt stood at the ignominious threshold of her parents’ house. “I’m leaving,” she declared. “I need time away from this place, from you.” Metrics like “heartbreak level” and “gaslighting” just hit DEFCON 1.
Weeks turned into what felt like an eternity while Britt found a job, a sense of self-worth, and eventually an apartment. Ignoring her parents’ calls became easier than ignoring spam emails. Who needs family drama when you’ve got unpaid bills and leaky faucets?
Years glided by, and as she prepared to graduate from college, Britt made one last olive branch. She dialed up her parents to invite them, offering them a chance at redemption. Because hope, unlike common sense, dies slowly.
Surprise! They didn’t show up again. This time their excuse was oozing with as much substance as whipped cream. Pregnant Iris had a craving for a particular cake, and traffic jams ensured they’d miss yet another milestone. A text, more infuriating than an IRS audit, popped up to echo this travesty.
Once more, Britt was left dealing with emotional wreckage. Justin’s unwavering support soothed her, but it couldn’t remove the sting of parental absence.
With Justin, her now doting partner, they built a life. Despite finding some semblance of normalcy, the ghost of her parents’ neglect lurked. One thing Britt learned about people is when you let them waste a second chance, they’ll do it with unflinching consistency.
Through all this, Britt’s life lesson was simple: Actions have consequences, terrible excuses more so, and eventually, you’ll need to decide what sort of accomplice you want to be in your own life story.
