My Parents Laughed At My Art Career, Saying I Wasn’t Their Kid. At Their…

Retribution vs Understanding

Claire returned and asked me the question I’d avoided. “Did you plan this to hurt them or to make them understand how much they hurt you?”

I said the second one, wanting them to feel what I felt. But as I sat in her living room with the weight of my actions, I realized I didn’t have the solution.

Might have been both. I may have wanted them to ache like they had for years.

Maybe I wanted them to feel unwanted and unwelcome. Maybe I wanted to watch them squirm in public as I did at that award ceremony.

Since I’d always been silent, the prospect worried me. He accepted the jokes and went on—the problem-free one.

I didn’t believe I could prepare something that vicious and precise. But I had; I spent weeks on it.

I edited images, wrote articles, and rehearsed my speaking. I knew what I was doing and did it nonetheless, knowing it would destroy them in front of everyone we knew.

That was no accident or rage. It was retribution—cold, calculated, and flawless.

I glanced at Claire and said I didn’t know it could be both. She nodded like it was the answer she anticipated.

The night in Claire’s guest room was restless. When I acknowledged lying, I saw my mother’s face every time I closed my eyes—how it twisted and crumbled.

I watched my dad lunge at me with a new expression—angry and maybe wounded. I witnessed visitors using their phones to record and upload everything.

Ryan was transfixed at the table, his sister’s breakdown upsetting his ideal existence. I kept thinking about the floor’s blank sheets.

I got what I desired. I made them feel as I did.

I openly humiliated them as they degraded me. I rejected them as they rejected me for years.

Felt horrible. I couldn’t articulate why it was dreadful, hollow, and wrong.

The Morning After

Around 3 a.m., I got up and used the restroom. Saw myself in the mirror—same face, same person, yet changed.

Someone who planned and executed retribution well. Someone who would intentionally harm others and watch.

I returned to bed but couldn’t sleep. I lay there looking at the ceiling and rehashing everything till sunrise.

I heard Claire answer the phone in the kitchen around 8:00 a.m. She said quietly.

She called my name. She came in the guest room doorway with her cordless phone.

“It’s Maya. She won’t stop calling until she talks to you.”

Am I greeted? Just started asking whether I was okay, where I was, and what happened.

Someone’s Instagram feed showed party footage. Apparently, many people had seen it since it was spreading.

She wanted to know whether I needed her, if I was secure, or if I was crazy. I assured her I was OK at Claire’s and possibly had lost my mind.

She claimed she was coming over and hung up before I could argue. Claire returned the call and called Maya a friend.

I nodded and hopped in the shower, thinking the hot water would make me feel human. It didn’t.

Turning on my phone after the shower was necessary. I couldn’t avoid it forever.

From the guest bed, I hit the power button and saw the screen light up. Notifications flooded in immediately.

60 messages, 20 missed calls, voicemails, emails. The group chat has 100+ new messages.

My gut tightened as I gently scrolled through them. Ryan’s were worst since they weren’t furious.

They were bewildered and hurt. “Why did you ruin their beautiful day? Everyone watched. There are videos everywhere. Mom won’t stop sobbing. Dad is yelling things I’ve never heard him say. Tara is furious. The kids are asking unanswerable questions. You humiliated them in front of everyone they know. Why? Why?”

I read his messages again to find rage to fight. But this confused hurt made me sick.

Voicemails and Ultimatums

So I listened to voicemails. My mother kept weeping and saying, “How could you?”

“How could you do this to us? How could you lie like that? How could you humiliate us? How could you?” she said after almost two minutes.

The message from my father was different. His voice was icy yet controlled.

No emotion. “Do not contact us again until you are ready to get down on your knees and apologize for what you did tonight. Do not call. Do not text. Do not show up at our house. You are not welcome until you are ready to beg forgiveness for this humiliation.”

He hung up. I held the phone and stared at the wall, realizing there was no turning back.

To make them feel what I felt, I succeeded. I had to accept being the perpetrator.

After packing, I thanked Claire for letting me crash at her house about midday. She hugged me at the door and meant it when she said to call if needed.

I drove 20 minutes back to my flat without the radio because I couldn’t tolerate noise. Parking in my customary place, I climbed the steps to the third level.

My legs felt like I’d run a marathon instead of only staying one night. Everything in my apartment looked the same but felt different.

The wall shelves held reproductions of my sculptures, which I had sold to galleries in three cities. The prize certificate was framed over my desk.

Gold letters on cream paper declaring my national recognition. I was pleased of that certificate when it arrived.

I pondered showing it to my folks before realizing they’d make another joke. As I stared at it, I realized that none of these successes had ever stopped them.

Not the prize, gallery showings, or collectors that bought my art. Since the jokes weren’t about me, they kept joking.

They were uneasy with a girl that didn’t suit their ideal daughter. Maya texted me wondering if I was home, alright, and if she could come over.

She arrived 40 minutes later with Chinese takeout and champagne after I texted my address. She placed everything on my kitchen counter and pulled out containers without asking.

Have begun opening boxes and received plates. She waited for me to chat on my couch with food on our laps.

I told her about the manufactured evidence—how I manipulated the images, made up the eye color issue, and assumed my grandma was a painter. She ate her lo mein gently without interruption.

Just let me explain my weeks-long planning. She chewed and thought for a while after I finished.

She asked me what would happen once I was satisfied. After seeing them squirm, I realized I hadn’t considered past the speech or their looks when they realized I was leveraging their joke against them.