Inheritance

I was born into hands that were already tired. My mother stitched tomorrow with threads she could barely afford. My sisters folded their own dreams and tucked them beneath my pillow so I could sleep upon a softer future. And here I stand holding a report card like a confession. How do I tell them that I tried? That somewhere between their sacrifices and my expectations, I lost myself? I fear their silence more than their anger. For anger passes. But disappointment... disappointment lingers in the eyes of the people you love most. Some nights I count every sacrifice they made for me until I become convinced I am a debt that can never be repaid. If love could be measured, I would owe the sky. If worth could be graded, I fear I have already failed. Yet tomorrow, I will still walk home wearing the face of the daughter who cannot bear to watch the people she loves wonder if it was all worth it.