“You’ve been staying out late a lot these last weeks. Do you know how it makes you look, Poppy? And how it makes us look as parents? You have no common sense. Some days, I wonder if the world is punishing us by giving us a daughter like you,” Ma says, lips pressed into a thin line. “Every day, I pray for you to be a better person, and still, you remain as you are.”

My eyes burn. I wish they didn’t, but they do. It’s just not fair. Why couldn’t I have parents who are more understanding, more sympathetic? Don’t I deserve parents who view me as more than a burden, as more than a mistake for them to fix?

“Are you going to stay silent?” Baba asks, his jaw tense. “Do you have nothing to say for yourself? You aren’t even going to apologize?”

When I don’t say anything, my gaze dropping to the carpet, Baba huffs an angry breath. “You know what happens to children who don’t listen to their parents, don’t you? They’re failures in life. Is that what you want for yourself?”

The words brand themselves into my memory, and I taste bile on the back of my tongue. Both of my parents look at me with so much resentment, yet still disguise it as concern.

“Poppy, look at us,” Ma asks sharply, and my head jerks up without permission. “Do you think you’re all grown up now, too smart to listen to us?”

Only silence prevails. Baba finally turns toward me, pinning me to the spot with a harsh glare. “Be better than this. Right now, you are nothing but a disappointment.”

Then he stands and makes his way to the stairs, leaving me with only my mother.

A lump is rising up my throat, slowly but surely. Whether it’s born of anger or frustration or sadness, I don’t know, but I feel the distinct urge to cry.

Ma walks over to me and grips my chin with tight fingers. “You think your stupid university in California will want you when you act like this? You can’t even behave properly around your parents.” Her nails dig into my skin. “You’re a shame upon this family.”

She lets go of me and follows after my father.

I stare after her, my breath coming out in harsh pants. Then slowly, piece by piece, I gather myself and walk up the stairs, head into my room, and shut the door.

In the mirror, my face looks back, but it feels separate from me, from who I really am. There are faint crescent marks on my cheeks, from where Ma’s fingernails dug in. They’re fading, but I can still feel the heat of her on my skin.