My parents are confused and disappointed when I once again refuse to go to youth group.
“You said I didn’t have to go as long as I’m at home, not out with my friends,” I remind them.
“That’s not what we said,” Dad insists.
“It kind of is.” Mom for the win, scooping a surprise layup for my team.
Things are going my way, so there’s no harm in offering a little painful honesty. I haul my miserable, pajama-clad ass upright. “Thank you. I just can’t do it,” I tell them, meaning it. “I wish I could be the good kid you want me to be. But I’m not. And I’m really sorry.” I’m apologizing for something much bigger and they have no idea, because those are the words I can never, ever say.
Mom bustles in and throws herself at me. “We love you so much.”
“I know, Mom.” There’s an ache behind my eyes and I badly want to close them again.