“No, I haven’t.”

“You’re delaying. If you miss the application deadline again this year …” He continues his lecture, but I tune him out.

I want to push back at them, scream, but what’s the point? My parents are good people who love me. They’ve paid for all of my fancy education since I was three years old. Came to all of my dance recitals as a child. Watched me cheer at my high school home games. Hell, they even held my hand when my first boyfriend broke my heart. In fact, they did all the right things, all the time. But they also micromanage my life. It used to just annoy me, but lately, it’s suffocating. Love isn’t the issue, but boundaries are.

I began working as a legal secretary because my parents wanted me to have experience in the legal field before applying to law school. But, as time went on, I’ve realized I don’t want to be an attorney like my father. Still, I can’t upset him. I hate disappointing people. I keep saying that, yes, I’ll apply because I want to make him proud. But it’s not what I want.

The result is an awkward in-between where I keep saying, “Yes, sure, of course, Dad,” but then tear up all the applications the moment I’m alone.

It makes me look like a liar or procrastinator when, really, I’m just unable to tell him no.

I press my fingers against my eyebrows, massaging them. I’m a thirty-two-year-old woman with a life and a job and a steady paycheck, but I’m still tied to expectations that I feel obligated to fulfill. Meanwhile, my father still tells me what to do, ordering me around like I’m fourteen years old. He loves me, and I love him, but I need space.

The rest of our dinner is eaten with comfortable, shallow conversation led by my sweet mother. “Did you see the new bags Gucci put out this season?”

The girl who always says yes feels fed up with all of it—the shopping, the buying, the never-ending quest of physical beauty. Quite honestly, I’m sick of her. And something tells me that this change in me, sparked by the shooting, is irrevocable. I’m tired of running to meet expectations that I don’t care to meet. I want to set my own.

After a cup of freshly brewed black tea, my father stands to leave. After kissing me once on each cheek, he hands me a prescription for Xanax. His name is handwritten on the orange tube.

I shake my head.

“It’s just a little Xanax,” he urges, pushing them in my palm. “If you wake up tomorrow too stressed out, it’ll help smooth out the edges, so you can work.”

“But I—”

“Just take it with you, Lauren. Just as a precaution.” He hugs me into his chest.

“Yeah. Okay.”

My mom hugs me next, tears filling her eyes. “I love you so much. I’m so glad you’re okay.” She swallows, blinking hard, as though trying to keep her face from crumbling. “Alhamdulillah,” she whispers in my ear before wrapping a cashmere scarf around her shoulders.