That was it.
No hug.
No “we’re proud of you.”
No celebration.
Just dismissal.
I didn’t argue. I didn’t cry in front of them.
I just nodded and went back to my room.
Something inside me shut down that night.
A month later, I moved out
Med school was brutal.
Not just academically—but emotionally, financially, mentally.
I took out loans. Worked two part-time jobs. Lived on instant noodles and vending machine coffee. Most nights I slept maybe four hours.
I studied biochemical pathways while folding laundry in a laundromat at 1 a.m. I had panic attacks before anatomy exams
During ceremonies and orientation events, I watched my classmates pose for photos with proud parents beneath banners with the school crest.
I usually sat alone in the back row.
When people asked, “Are your parents coming?” something twisted inside my chest.
Meanwhile, my parents paid for my brother’s wedding. They posted constantly about his sales job online.
“So proud of our successful son!”
They never called me.
Never asked how school was going.
Never asked if I was okay.
Eventually, I stopped expecting them to.
I learned how to live without them.
Then last week, out of nowhere, my mom called
Her voice was cheerful. Casual. Like we’d spoken yesterday.
