1642734778_punk-57-pdf

She raises her eyes, locking on mine and looking like she’s scared of
me. “Misha?”
Yep.
And awesome. She remembers my name. Two points for Mom.
Now she knows. Me choosing to come to this school and sit in this
office had nothing to do with Trey. It was about her.
“What do you want?” she asks, and it sounds like an accusation.
I laugh to myself. “What do I want?” And then I drop my eyes,
whispering to myself, “What do I want?”
I raise my chin and cock my head, sitting across from her and holding
her fucking accountable. “I guess I wanted a mom. I wanted a family, and I
wanted you to see me play the guitar,” I tell her. “I wanted to see you
Christmas morning and to smile at me and miss me and hold my sister
when she was sad or lonely or scared.” I watch as she just sits there silently,
her eyes glistening. “I wanted you to like us. I wanted you to tell my father
that he was a good guy who deserved better than you and that he should
stop waiting for you. I wanted you to tell us to stop waiting.”
I flex my jaw, getting stronger by the moment. This isn’t about me. I’m
done being hurt and asking myself questions when I know the answers
won’t be good enough.
“I wanted to see you,” I go on. “I wanted to figure you out. I wanted to
understand why my sister died of a heart attack at seventeen years old,
because she was taking drugs to keep her awake to study and be the perfect
daughter, athlete, and student, so you would come back and be proud of her
and want her!”
I study her face, seeing Annie’s brown eyes staring back, pained and
turning red. “I wanted to understand why you didn’t come to your own
child’s funeral,” I charge. “Your baby who was lying on a dark, wet, cold