Why the hell has my life become so frustrating?! My father—the asshole—ran off with some random chick five years ago like it was no big deal. I had only been twelve at that time. Twelve! Shithead! Ass eating dirtbag!

My poor mother was devastated, it completely ruined her. She, of all people, didn't deserve to be treated like this! How could she have loved someone like him? And how could I also have once loved him more than anything in the world. I guess, back when he was still a father who took care of his family. Now, the rage I feel whenever I think about him? It's like a fire that eats up every single thought in my head. And yeah, sometimes I wish I could just turn it off. But I can't.

A few years back, I started noticing something wasn't right with my dad.

He'd always been the kind of father who was around—weekends meant training, movie marathons, and spending time together. He worked as an insurance broker, a job so regular it practically smelled like instant coffee and pressed shirts. So when he suddenly started going on "weekend business trips," it didn't sit right. Gone from Friday night to Sunday evening. What kind of insurance emergency needed him out of town every other weekend?

It didn't make sense. It didn't feel right.

The worst part? My mom didn't see it. Or maybe she chose not to. She was always the one who tried to see the best in people, even when they didn't deserve it. And back then, she had more than herself or me to worry about. She was pregnant. Glowing, hopeful. Her world was growing, not shrinking. She didn't want to believe the man she loved could lie to her face.
But I saw it. I saw it in the way he avoided eye contact at dinner, how his phone buzzed just a little too often, how his voice softened when he took calls in the other room. And the mystery trainee he'd supposedly been mentoring. She wanted to believe in him. And I think, deep down, she was afraid of what might happen if she didn't.
And then came that day. The one that snapped everything in half.

It was a rainy Friday afternoon—the kind where everything felt a little quieter than usual. Mom was baking. The kitchen smelled like cinnamon and butter, and you could hear soft jazz playing through the old radio she kept on the windowsill. I was curled up on the living room couch reading a book.

Then the front door opened. He walked in like he always did, shaking the rain off his coat, but this time, someone followed him.
"This is Janine," he said casually. "She's shadowing me for a while. The company thinks she can learn a lot from me."
Janine.

Even the name still makes my stomach turn.

She was young, flawless in that magazine-cover sort of way. Dark straight hair, long legs, a polished smile. She looked like she'd stepped out of an ad for perfume or sports cars. The embodiment of Asian beauty.
My mom peeked her head out from the kitchen to greet them, hands still dusted with flour. I watched her smile—tight, but genuine—and then turn away.

Dad said they were meant to go on a longer business trip, so he had to stop by at home first, to get more clothes to change.

And then, the moment that detonated everything:

He thought no one was looking. Thought it was subtle. But I saw it—his hand, casual and unmistakable, landing on Janine's lower back and then drifting lower, right before giving her a firm slap, like it was the most natural thing in the world. She giggled, flipping her long hair.
Mom had come back into the living room just in time to catch it. She froze, midway through opening the ribbon on the back of her apron. In that one moment, everything inside her seemed to click, like a button finally switched.

My mom had always been gentle, the kind of person who spoke softly and gave everyone the benefit of the doubt. But in that instant, her kindness turned to steel. Her voice, when it finally came, shook the walls. I had never seen my mother so angry on any other occasion. Never.
That day changed everything.

My father—a man I'd once thought invincible, someone I believed was incapable of cruelty—had cheated on his pregnant wife. In our house. In front of his own child. I thought my parents were forever. Turns out, "forever" is fragile. It can be broken by a moment. By a hand placed where it shouldn't be. By a lie that was finally too loud to ignore. My perfect image of him was completely shattered.
Yet, out of all that pain, what I remember most is the way my mother stood her ground. How she gathered the broken pieces of her heart, one by one, and didn't let them define her. I've never admired anyone more.

After the blow‑up, Dad moved out that very night—no one could stand the sight of him for another second. Not me, not Mom, and certainly not my not‑yet‑born sister, Kimberly. Barely a week later, as if the stress had been a trigger, Mom's water broke. I blamed him for everything. His lies, his ego—he'd upset her so much she went into labor early. She still had the presence of mind to dial an ambulance, and a few hours later Kimberly arrived, pink‑cheeked and perfect. From that day on it was just the three of us, tucked away in our single‑family house at the ragged edge of the suburbs—paying a mortgage that felt more like a ransom.

A year later the divorce was finalized after weeks of legal tug‑of‑war over property, schedules, and signatures. Mom got sole custody; Dad was granted alternate‑weekend visits—way too generous, if you asked me. His court‑ordered support checks, kept the lights on, and I stayed at my private girls' school, safely insulated from boys and their drama. Mom picked up a part‑time job so there'd be a little left over each month for treats or new clothes. Life without a husband, it turned out, could still be frugal but manageable. As if we'd ever really depended on him.

But no one expected one thing: This bastard had recently stopped all support payments. Our lawyer fired off letters, but they all came back unanswered. There was no response to the reminders. My father had vanished into thin air and couldn't be found. Vanished—probably run off to another country with that ridiculous Janine.
The money dried up fast. We couldn't keep the house, so we downsized to a cramped three‑room apartment where the rent and utilities swallowed Mom's paycheck whole. My turn next: I'd need to land a part‑time job, and soon, if we were going to stay afloat.

Anyway, the move meant I had to change schools—in the middle of the school year. I'd been attending a private girls' academy. Yes, I was a little spoiled back then; Dad had the money and insisted on "the best" for his precious daughter. So, why not take advantage of it, right?

Now, thanks to him, I was stuck in the main office of a public boys' school. Literally my worst nightmare came to life. But, every other co‑ed school in the district was full, so this place had just recently opened its doors to girls as well. The policy was barely a year old, which most likely meant that there were hardly any female students. Perfect. Just perfect. I could already feel the crazy creeping in.

I sat waiting for the secretary to finish my paperwork and for her to assign me to my brand‑new "super‑cool" class. Please, universe, don't let it be a sea of nothing but guys. Whatever happened, I wasn't about to take anyone's nonsense; if they pushed me, I'd push back—and maybe teach those uncouth Neanderthals some manners.
One leg swung over my knee, I let my foot bounce back and forth while I waited. I took in the cramped office. I was perched on one of three plastic chairs to the left of the door, next to a tiny round table stacked with outdated brochures. A long counter sat around three metres in front of me, and behind it were two desks. The secretary—thin glasses, tight bun—was bent over my file.
The phone rang, yanking her attention away. I couldn't hear the conversation, but she wrote something down every now and then—probably sick notes. A moment later the door swung open and two boys burst in, laughing like they'd just discovered fire. One was pocket‑sized and dark‑haired; the other was a walking telephone pole. Dumb and Dumber: the growth‑spurt edition.
Still on the phone, the secretary raised one finger—the universal teacher‑signal for "knock it off or perish." No effect, those two were still giggling and up to no-good.
Dark Curls spotted a pencil cup on the counter and immediately tried to balance a pen on his upper lip. Tower Boy gave him a slow clap, then leaned over and used the top of Curls' head as a bongo drum. Apparently this was peak comedy.
Finally the secretary hung up, smacked the receiver into its cradle, and said—without even looking—

"Antonio, Jacob—cut it out. Do we need a rehearsal for detention?"
Instant obedience. They snapped to attention, practically saluting. Apparently they were here to pick up the sick‑list; she slid the paper across the counter and, without even glancing my way, they bolted. Fine by me—less small talk with the local comedy duo.

"Miss Sawyer, I'm finished with your entry."
I popped up and hurried to the counter. She handed me a packet of papers. "Your schedule, classroom number, and the rest of the essentials."

"Got it," I said, clutching the packet.

"One more thing," she added before I could turn away. "As sorting this out has taken a while, you don't have to head to class right this minute—it's mid‑period. Wait until the next break, then go in with everyone else. Feel free to explore the building in the meantime."

Probably a good idea; barging into the classroom mid lessons would only paint a bigger target on my back. I thanked her, and she dismissed me with a quiet "Good luck."

I decided to go outside for a bit, find a bench to sit on, and study my new surroundings.

The school complex was huge, but the schoolyard? Massive. Like, ridiculously so. It stretched out behind the building like a miniature park that couldn't quite decide if it was meant for studying, socializing, or military-grade sports drills.

I stepped outside, blinking into the light, and took it all in. The first thing I noticed was a wide tarred area just past the back exit. To the left a little further stood a modest snack bar—half-rusted but still in operation— surrounded by buzzing vending machines and a couple of trash cans. The area was sprinkled with a good amount of long picnic benches, as well as some single benches for students to sit on.

Past that came the real heart of the yard: a broad green lawn, well-kept and edged with clusters of trees, flowerbeds that already started blooming due to it being spring, and overgrown bushes that probably hadn't been trimmed since the school's last renovation. The lawn wrapped around the paved area in a big U-shape, giving off a calm, almost idyllic feel—at least until recess hit and it turned into a zoo.

Beyond the green space, toward the very back, things shifted gears. This was the "sport zone," clearly reserved for PE class torture sessions and jock worship. A red, rubberized running track looped around the perimeter, with sand pits on either side for long jump or high jump—though it mostly looked like a giant litter box. A row of weathered goalposts marked a multipurpose field where you could probably play football, run laps, or break an ankle depending on the day. There were even faded lines for basketball on a cracked concrete court just off to the side.

I took a deep breath and let the sight soak in. Honestly, I didn't know what I expected at first. At least it wasn't the post-apocalyptic dump I'd braced myself for.

After I made myself comfortable on the closest bench available, I looked down at the papers the secretary had handed me. My new class number, a detailed floor plan, my schedule, class times, teacher list... and weirdly, a full roster of the students. Names and all. Nice. Time to find out if I was going to be surrounded by idiots. Scanning the list, I let out a relieved breath—there was another girl in my class. One. Exactly one. Her name was Leana Wise. Poor thing. She'd had to survive all those boys by herself until now. I already knew: if anyone gave her trouble, I'd back her up. No question.

The bell rang—probably signalling the start of the next lesson. Maybe it was time to explore a little more. I waited a little before I got up to wander back into the building. Some students probably had to change classes for the next lesson, so I wanted to give them some time to file back into their classrooms.

Inside the school, even though the building was big, everything was pretty straightforward. The hallways weren't confusing at all—if you looked at the layout from above, the school probably resembled a giant cross. Floor by floor, I memorized the layout. I'd rather not get into the situation where I would ever have to ask for directions.

The ground floor didn't have any classrooms. Just the cafeteria (tucked into the centre of the "cross"), the teachers' lounge, the secretary's office, a first aid room, the library, the entrance area, and one unmarked door. What was behind it? No clue. All the classrooms and restrooms were split between the top three floors. That was about it.

To kill some time, I decided to check out the restroom. According to my papers, the girls' was on the first floor. I headed up the stairs, which were situated on either the top or bottom end of the "cross", already grumbling to myself about how much walking this place required. But hey, a little exercise never hurt anyone.

The restroom was right where I expected—midway along the outer side of the corridor, exactly opposite the cafeteria's position below. Probably the same setup on every floor.

The girls' restroom was... meh. Not disgusting, just kind of run-down. Passably clean, but definitely not somewhere you'd want to drop food. On the right side, a row of sinks stretched beneath some streaky mirrors. A big plus point for the little box next to the door that offered free toiletries for the girls.

I didn't really need to use the toilet, so I just glanced into one of the mirrors instead. A serious face stared back at me—turquoise eyes, the same colour I hated seeing in my reflection because they reminded me too much of him. Same for my hair: dark brown, loose, falling just past my shoulders. I tried to encouragingly smile at myself—halfhearted, but still. Maybe things wouldn't be as terrible as I thought. Only six months left for this school year and then just another year on top. I could survive this. A strong woman was living inside of me. I'd be fine.

With a small scowl and a quick nod to myself, I stepped back into the hallway with a little more confidence. Time to check out the second floor—where I'd be spending most of my time anyway. The floors looked like they were arranged depending on the class year, the first years on the third floor, the highest of the building, then the second years on the second floor and finally the third years on the first floor.