Chapter 3: Truths and Turning Points

My mom, shaking with emotion, continued: "To keep up with you, I never skipped class again. I got up at two every morning to cook for my mom and prepare her medicine..."

Her hands trembled so much she almost dropped the letter. Her voice cracked, thick with tears. A hush fell over the room.

The homeroom teacher's expression shifted, sensing something was off.

Her eyes darted from me to my mom, brows knitting together in confusion. She straightened up, lips parting as she realized this wasn't the story she'd expected.

She interrupted, "Wait, what do you mean by cooking and making medicine?"

Her voice had softened, all the sharpness draining out. She looked genuinely concerned for the first time.

My mom wiped her tears and said softly, "Ms. Parker, when he was little, I was bedridden for a year. His father had to work, so he skipped class every day to come home early, cook, and get my medication. That's why his grades suffered. Later, he suddenly wanted to work hard, so he got up early every day to do chores—all to take care of me."

She paused, her voice barely above a whisper. Several students looked down at their desks, their embarrassment clear. I felt the tide turning—shame was giving way to something like respect.

The homeroom teacher let out an awkward 'oh,' nervously tucking her bangs behind her ear. "Continue reading, then. Didn't expect that—a lovesick type, liked her since childhood, huh?"

She tried to sound light, but her voice was unsteady. I could see her glance at the clock, as if wishing for the next period to start already.

My mom read on: "Liking you is so hard, because you walk so far ahead, so high above. To meet you, I studied even harder, followed you to the best high school in the county, but I..."

Her words came out in a rush, desperate to get it over with. I felt like I was reliving every late night, every failed test, every hope I'd pinned on a future that wasn't mine.

The homeroom teacher immediately interrupted:

She held up a hand, trying to regain control. "Our school isn't the best in the county. See? Because your head was full of love, you didn't get into the top school. Everyone, this is a hard lesson. The girl he liked made it, but he missed his chance. What does this mean? If you don't study hard, you'll even miss out on love."

She tried to turn my pain into a warning. Some students nodded, but it felt hollow. I glanced around—no one was smiling anymore.

My mom said softly, "Ms. Parker, the next line my son wrote is: 'But I didn't get in, yet I met you here.'"

Her words fell heavy. My mom looked at me with sad, apologetic eyes, as if sharing in my regret.

The homeroom teacher's face soured immediately.

She pursed her lips, glancing away. It was clear this wasn't the narrative she'd hoped for.

She said, "Looks like that girl didn't focus on her studies either. Continue."

She sounded defensive, her earlier confidence fading. I could see a faint flush on her cheeks, and she wouldn't meet my eyes.

I noticed the slight embarrassment on her face.

My heart twisted. She was always so composed, but now she seemed almost vulnerable—human.