Confrontation

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It was still early in the morning, the sun barely up and about, and yet I'm already wide awake. I was pacing back and forth in my room, biting my lips in nervousness.

My parents were well aware of my goal to enter at Northwestern University, which is my dream school, and they've agreed to it.

My Father was a strict person, and very well organized in whatever he does. He taught me to be like that ever since I was a kid and so I turn out to be a meticulous person like he wanted me to be. I plan each and every step for everything I do and I can't afford to make any mistakes or fail or get myself distracted. All my life, my goal was to make them proud. My mother was very supportive in whatever I do, but as for my father, not so much.

He wanted me to be a lawyer, so to speak. And I thought it was an acceptable profession, but it never struck any spark, passion, or determination in me. Whenever he mentions it, I just nodded and accepted whatever he told I must do.

But when I entered senior year, I've discovered something amazing, something I never knew I was capable of, where I could totally be myself with no limitations or restrictions, without being afraid of making any mistakes or failure.

I was introduced to the field of writing.

It started off only as a project. Our English teacher asked us to make a short story about issues regarding our country, and so I did it. I finished my story thoroughly, like I used to do on each project I ever did.

My English teacher saw some potential in my story, asking me after one of our classes if it was my first time writing my story and I said yes.

He recommended me a club that the school has, where journalist and authors were. I was skeptical about joining at first, but eventually I thought it as something that would improve my writing skills and so I joined.

Months after I joined, I decided I wanted to prolong my stay. I enjoyed the club, and I made friends with people there. The club is also where Liam and I became close. We knew each other way before, but we only became very good friends when we started bonding at the club. I wrote stories and articles for the club and even finished a few novels of my own. Majority, I let Liam read, but a few were for my eyes only.

I never told my parents about the club, especially to my dad. I was wary that he might make me leave, so I brought it upon myself to keep it from them. I made sure writing never affected my studies and so I often work at night where no schedules and plans were designated.

And now two years passed writing has become my passion, and I want to pursue it as my career. It makes me feel free and a whole different person. It allows me to let my guard down. When I write, I feel ecstatic and it makes me happy.

I took a deep breath as I twist my doorknob out of the door and face whatever conditions my father would give me if I were to pursue this career. If I convinced him, so to speak.

I walked out of the door, walked downstairs, and entered the kitchen where my Dad was sitting on the dining table, newspaper buried at his nose and steaming hot coffee at his side.

The kitchen smelled of coffee beans and bacon, which was making my stomach grumble, but I set that feeling aside first and sat beside my dad. I cleared my throat in an attempt to get his attention and also distract myself from the frantic beating of my heart.

He didn't budge, so I decided to just do this in blunt and fast way.

Just rip the bandage off.

"Dad, I'm pursuing the career in writing. I want to be a writer."

The kitchen was dead silent. All I could hear was the faint sound of the frying pan from the kitchen counter and the gurgling noise of boiling water. Tension in the air was becoming sp thick that anyone could cut it in half.

"No, you're pursuing law." He deadpanned told me, his voice booming out of the kitchen not even budging from the position he was in a while ago, not even hearing me out, not even thinking twice about it.

"But Dad I—"

"No buts. Whatever child's play you're performing, cut it out and do as I say." I frowned at his words, brows knitted. I clenched my fists and took a deep breath, telling myself that I can do this. He's still my father, right? He'll understand. It's going to be fine.

"Dad. Hear me out, writing is what I want to purs--" He dropped the newspaper abruptly at the table, startling and cutting me off of what I'm about to say.

"What you want? Isn't becoming a lawyer your goal? We've talked about that ever since you entered high school."

"I- I changed my mind. And writing, it's my passion okay? When I pass at Northwestern, I'll—"

I never had the chance to continue my sentence. Despite my father's strict demeanor, never once had he touched us, never once had he laid his hands on me. But the lingering pain on my left cheek says otherwise. That sting struck me like a bomb as the realization of my father's sudden hostility dawned on me.

With my head was cast aside, I smiled. A bitter, humorless smile. I heard my mother yelled something from the kitchen and was now rushing to me, shouting incoherent words at my father as I registered what kind of life I was stuck into.

I'm trapped in a cage I never knew I had until this moment.

"You never disobeyed me before Reyna! What's gotten into you huh!?" My Dad shouted at me rage and an unfamiliar emotion I can't seem to decipher sipped out from his tone.

I just smiled wider, a bitter smile.

"Yeah." I finally answered, bringing my face up to meet his eyes burning with overwhelmingly disappointed rage, conspicuously aimed at me.

And it hurts, it hurts more than the slap he gave me a while ago, those disappointing angry eyes that I longed all my life to look at me with pride, to look at me the way he used to before.

Before I knew it, I was standing up and was now facing him, fear completely dissolving out of my system because the worst possible outcome was now playing before my eyes.

I've been through worse.

Screw it.

"Yeah, you're right Dad. I never disobeyed you. Never once I questioned you. Just this time, I want to do something I want, something I truly desire, but what gives? I'm not allowed to." I said in a very low tone, spite and venom slipping in my voice.

My father's rage grew, and so he stood up and loomed over me. Glaring me down until I felt weak, but not anymore, not this time.

"You. What's gotten into you? Right now? At this age? You decided to throw a tantrum? Fine, do what you want, but don't even think I'll be supporting you. Pay for your own tuition fee." He retorted back at me with the same amount of spite and venom, probably worse.

Never had I imagined he would go as to cutting off my school financials just so he could get his way.

"Alejandro! Stop that! You don't know what you're saying! Dear let's all come down shall we? Reyna sit down dear, come on let's all talk about this rationally." My mom's eyes were as wide as saucers, fear and worry apparent in her almond eyes. Despite her tired display, brown and gray frays of hair escaping her loosed bun framing her face, she still looked beautiful.

She looked so scared for me, worried for my father, and unsure about the situation, for this kind of event never happened before.

"I'll apply for a scholarship. I'll deal with my studies on my own if you're not willing to be a father to me just because I'm not doing what you want. Fine, I'll reach my goals on my own."

I couldn't take it anymore. My throat was closing up, making it hard to breathe, and my chest was so heavy it felt like I was carrying several stones inside. I stormed out of the kitchen, grabbed my phone, wallet, and keys, and left the house before entering the car. I heard my mom called out my name, my father yelling at me to come back, anger slipping out of his tone.

But I didn't care, for once I didn't listen.

As I twisted the key in the ignition, roaring the engine to life, it was only then that I realize why were my eyes were stinging earlier and why I had trouble breathing.

I was crying. I was crying after how many years of not doing so. After that moment that changed my life completely, I never dared cry again.

But today, right now, those simultaneous tears flowing down from my eyes, traveling to my cheeks, down to my neck said otherwise. I gasped at every breath I took and tried hard to swallow back every sob, but failed miserably at every attempt. I sniffed a snot, stepping on the gas and made my way out of the driveway, driving away to who knows where.

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