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Future disapointment

I don’t really remember my dad. He died when I was young. Young enough that memories blurred into silhouettes. I think I remember his shadow in the hallway, my mom’s laugh echoing from the kitchen. I know they were happy. And I know his death cracked something open in all of us. After that, I stopped talking. Not out of rebellion. Just… like my voice had nowhere to go. Like it got lost in the echo of that hospital room. My mom tried. She tried so hard. But grief is a cold house, and none of us could find the door out.

It wasn’t until a trip with my mom, some half-baked attempt to “heal” or “make memories” or whatever therapy-speak was trending, that we ended up at a racing track in France. There was this flyer, all grease-stained and taped to a vending machine, about a junior racers program. I applied without telling her. When I got accepted, I think she cried. I didn’t know what to say, so I just told her I was hungry.

And then came Caleb. Big name. Famous racer. Fast life. Sharper tongue. He saw something in me I didn’t even know I had. Took me under his wing. Not like a dad - never that - but more like someone who knew how much it sucked to float. Now I spend my mornings in London, in Caleb’s house — or “villa,” as Klea likes to call it. She’s the kids’ mom. The kids… they’re loud, real, sometimes annoying, sometimes funny. Sometimes I stare at them and wonder if I’ll ever have something that stable. If I even want it.

Do I feel like I betrayed my mom and sister by moving here? Yeah. Every damn day. But I also know I had to grab something before everything in me rusted. So I’m still here. Still waking up too early. Still smelling like engine oil. Still skipping half my classes and faking my way through the rest. But I’m trying.