You Need to Make Me Proud Anonymous

My mother is a high school dropout with a daughter at 16.

Sitting alone surrounded by grey-toned seats on my number five elementary school bus, my eyes are stuck to a large, bold letter “B” stamped onto a stark white piece of paper. I look up out of the window to blink away the impending tears and notice the familiar green and white sign of my road. I stand anxiously to my feet and grab my bright pink backpack. Pushing through my loud group of friends who hadn’t even noticed my mood, I trod my way off the bus, wiping away any fallen tears. As I round the corner of the bus I see my mother with her arms out, waiting for a hug. She pulls me in, then holds my hand to begin our short walk home from the bus stop. Before we could continue on our trek, I freeze.

Too ashamed to speak, I hold the horrid grade out for her to see and look away, too nervous to see the disappointed look in her eyes. To my surprise, she wraps me in her arms once again and presses a kiss to my forehead. In her thick Irish accent, she calmly reassures me that I am okay.

Confused, I wipe the sleep from my eyes and slightly open them to see my bedroom door ajar, the silhouette of my mother with her head hanging low standing in the light. I close my eyes as the...