I Got Into College, Mom!

I was in my room today, like usual, after coming home from school, tossing my backpack into the corner and cranking up one of my favorite tracks almost to full volume. Guitar riffs burst out of the speakers in defiance of all the neighbors — the hoarse voice of the singer tearing through the air just like the emotions inside me.

— Charlie! Turn it down! — came Mom’s voice from downstairs, with that raspy edge that always carried a worried sternness.

— Some other time, Ma! — I shouted back and didn’t even think about turning it down.

I was holding a sheet of paper in my hand. White, stamped with the University of Portland seal. I got in. That’s it. It’s official now. I’m finally getting out of this shithole and something’s gonna change. God, I’m so sick of this dump.

— Charlie! I mean it! I’ve got a headache!

I smirked, glancing at the speaker, and finally reached for the remote. The music obediently faded, leaving behind a light ringing in my ears and a weird emptiness in the room. I grimaced, stuffed the letter with the Portland seal back into the envelope, and practically ran down the stairs.

— Mom! — I burst into the kitchen, where she was sitting with her elbows on the table. She looked at me with that slightly anxious, but mostly surprised expression, and her eyes widened even more when, out of nowhere, I walked up to her and hugged her tight.

— I got in, Mom. Portland. It’s official — I breathed into her ear, holding her tighter than I probably should have.

She froze. For a second. Two. Then finally raised her arms and hugged me back — slowly, like she was afraid to believe it.

— You... you serious? — she asked quietly.

— Signed, sealed, and an invitation to orientation. I’m leaving in two months.

— Oh God, Charlie... — Her voice trembled, but her eyes and smile lit up with real, bittersweet joy. — I’m so proud of you.

I stepped back, sat down across from her. Mom reached out and touched my cheek.

— You did it. — she said, smiling genuinely. Her voice sounded warmer than usual. She straightened up, got up from the table, and walked to the fridge, tossing over her shoulder — We need to celebrate this.

I silently watched as she pulled out a bottle of wine — that same rosé that had been there since last Christmas. She smiled, the cork popped with a soft bang, and it was like she instantly relaxed: the tension dropped from her face, her shoulders loosened. I hadn’t seen her this light in a long time.

— This is the start of a new life, isn’t it? — she said, pouring into two glasses. — Portland… You’ve been dreaming about this for so long.

She handed me a glass. I don’t drink, but this time I made an exception. We clinked glasses.

— To you, Charlie.

— To us, Mom — I correct her — You’ve always had my back, even when I was being a dumbass.

We both smile, but something shifts in her eyes. It’s like a shadow flashing across her face — barely there, but I catch it anyway. Mom’s eyes dim a little, and her lips tremble like she’s about to say something, but then decides not to.

— What is it, Mom? — I squint, trying to read her face. She looks like she’s stuck between a sip of wine and something that won’t let her breathe easy.

Mom turns away, sets the glass on the table, and suddenly just... sinks. Slowly lowers herself back onto the chair, propping her forehead in her hand. Silent.

— Mom?

She lifts her eyes to me. Too fast — a look filled with fear, guilt, confusion. And sadness. Quiet, but heavy.

— I... I’m glad you’re leaving. Really glad. It’s... a chance for you. A big one. You’ve earned it.

— What are you talking about? — I lean forward. — I’m not leaving you. — I say softer now, without pushing, but with a worry rising in my throat like a tide. — Mom, you look like you’re about to cry.

She slowly shakes her head, sniffles like she really might break down. Her hair sticks to her temples, her shoulders slumped. Like someone just turned off her light.

— I know. You’re a good kid, even if you get into trouble sometimes.

— Hey, hey! That was only a couple of times. At least officially — I grin and put my hand on her shoulder, adding with a wink — and besides, maybe Uncle Brian will start coming around more.

Mom flinches, like I just spit into her soul.

— Don’t say that, Charlie — she says hoarsely, almost like it’s tearing her up. — About Brian. Please. He’s just a friend.

I go silent. It’s like the air in the room gets heavier. Smells like wine and something tense I can’t name. My mind races: Here we go again. Every damn time it’s something important, especially when it’s about Mom’s happiness — silence, that shadow on her face, and a subject change.

— Mom... — I start carefully, my fingers gripping the edge of the table. — You still haven’t told me what really happened with Dad.

She lifts her eyes. Gray-green, tired and clear like glass.

— You know, I... — She sighs. — I already told you. He just left. Took off... we didn’t work out.

— Really? Then why haven’t you been with anyone since? And why hasn’t he ever visited me? Not once. Never even called! Either something bad happened to him — or he’s just an asshole, and I’m leaning toward the second one!

Mom flinches like I just threw ice water in her face. She turns to me, her eyes flashing — but it’s not anger. It’s some deep kind of despair, something that’s been boiling under her skin all this time, barely held back.

— He’s not an asshole — she says quietly. — He just... he couldn’t help it.

I raise an eyebrow.

— What do you mean, “couldn’t”? You make it sound like someone forced him to leave his family and dump you alone with a kid. Mom, come on, I’m not a child anymore. I’m eighteen. I need to know. Everything.

She hesitates. Then she gets up, walks deeper into the kitchen, and comes back holding her phone. Drops into the chair like all the strength’s left her, turns the screen on, and silently hands it to me. I take it. The screen lights up — Instagram is open.

I squint: it’s a Story post. A girl. Bright purple hair, a lip piercing, huge T-shirt with a trollface, legs practically bare, sticking out from underneath. The background — so familiar it makes my stomach twist. It’s like my room: Akira poster on the wall, clothes scattered, plush toys. Youthful chaos. She’s clearly my age.

— Who’s that? — I ask, scrolling down without thinking. The profile bio is open.

@violetvoidd

Crazy bitch | Portland, OR

Mom sighs and looks away, like she just ripped something out of herself she’s been scared of for decades.

— That’s... — her voice cracks. — That’s your father, Charlie.

Laughter bursts out of me before I even realize. Short, dumb, nervous.

— You... you’re serious right now? This is some kind of joke? — I’m holding the phone in front of me like it’s a bomb about to go off. — Mom. She’s a girl. With piercings and anime-colored hair. And, sorry, boobs. She can’t be...

— ...he. — she cuts me off. — Was. His name was John. And he... he got infected with “Chrysalis” when you were five. I didn’t know how to tell you. Back then I could barely hold myself together.

— Wait. — I stand up. My throat’s dry, legs feel like rubber. — You’re saying my father didn’t die. That he didn’t leave. But what the fuck, then? What?

— Turned into a girl. Almost your age back then. — Mom nods. Her lips tremble. — You were five. Believe me, it was a huge shock for both of us. I thought your father had cheated on me! Back then everyone said the virus could only be transmitted sexually.

Mom lowers her gaze. I just stand there, phone still in my hand, like it weighs a ton now. The girl in the photo — purple hair, piercings, that ridiculous outfit… No fucking way. It can’t be.

— Hold on… — I sit back down, staring at her. — But then why… oh… I mean. I need to think. This… this is way too much.

I stand up, grab that “celebratory” wine glass, and down it in one go without even thinking if Mom’s gonna scold me. She doesn’t say a word, just looks at me with that guilty expression.

— So you just... gave him away? — I hiss, already piecing it together, the fucked-up fate of my father — That’s it, huh? So it wasn’t him who left us — you gave him up to a shelter when things got tough?

Mom flinched. Like I’d hit her, not with words, but with a punch. She closed her eyes, breathing hard, and slowly turned her face away.

— You don’t understand... — she whispered. — It was hell, Charlie. He… she... — her voice cracked. — It was four weeks of hell. John was changing right in front of my eyes. All those doctors, checkups, inspectors, protocols. I felt like a character in some fucked-up indie film, where you’re ashamed to even breathe or be there, just because you’re his wife. I went through hell too, a mountain of tests. And when it finally ended, when the last shift happened… that morning, there was a girl sitting in our bedroom. Wearing his T-shirt. Six years old. With his eyes. She was staring at me, shaking. I... I couldn’t even breathe.

— What did you do then? — my voice came out flat. Like it wasn’t even mine.

— Then people from the Center came. Or rather, they sent a social worker to handle the paperwork. Everything was done by protocol... — She clasped her hands tightly, not looking at me. — She chose the name Violet. They wrote it all down to make it official. And when it was my turn... I couldn’t. I signed the papers giving up custody.

— You abandoned her — I said. Straight. No softening. And even I flinched at the sound of my own voice.

Mom bit her lip. Her eyes were red, but still no tears.

— I want to forget it... she begged, screamed that I was her wife. That she was John. God, it was so fucked up. You don’t get it, Charlie. I was twenty-nine. The man I’d shared my bed with, the one who held my hand in the delivery room — turned into a child. A girl. With a squeaky voice and fucking tears. You were running around, asking a million questions. I tried, I really did. But I was falling apart every single day. I was scared I’d lose my mind.

I lifted my head and looked back at the phone. The account was still open. Violet. Purple hair, that in-your-face look. Jesus fuck... She really does look like me. The eyes.

— And all this time… — I swallowed — you were watching her?

— No, I mean yes. It’s complicated. But yeah, now I do. I found her after some time. It was hard for me. But when I found out she’d been placed with a family in Portland — I felt relief. I was so happy when she started posting photos. It meant she was alive. That it wasn’t all terrible. That she made it.

I couldn’t believe it. This... this was like some movie. A trashy drama.

— Wait... — I shook my head like I could rattle my thoughts into place. — Portland? You said she’s in Portland?

Mom froze. Slowly lifted her eyes to me. One second. Two.

— Um... yeah... — she said, looking at me with empty eyes, completely unaware why I was even asking.

I silently turned my gaze back to the phone screen. The @violetvoidd account was still open. I scrolled down — one photo, another... and there it was. A new post. A slightly blurry selfie in front of some building. The caption read:

“Portland, I’m coming! PSU Class of ‘29, bitches 💜🦋”

My heart skipped a beat.

— You... — I looked up. — Do you even get what that means?

Mom seemed to freeze for a moment, like the dots only just connected in her head. Then her lips barely twitched, and she whispered:

— She… she got into your university too?

I exhaled through my nose, short and tense. Then laughed. Loudly. Like someone had grabbed the remote from my bedroom stereo and cranked the volume back to full blast, and I laughed for several seconds straight, while my brain tried not to break.