When I was 16, I told my mom I wanted to be an actress. I’d just seen my school’s production of Romeo and Juliet, and something clicked. I felt like I belonged on stage. I rushed home, excited to tell her, hoping she’d be supportive. But she just laughed. “An actress? Please,” she said. “You’ll be lucky if you end up sweeping floors on set.” Her words hurt, but I was used to it by then. She always shot down anything that didn’t fit her idea of success.
I didn’t let it stop me, though. I practiced in my room, joined the drama club, and even snuck into acting classes. Whenever she saw a script lying around, she’d shake her head and mutter about me wasting my time. It stung, but I kept going. I wanted to prove I could do it.
On my 18th birthday, she handed me a wrapped package, and I actually felt a bit of hope. But when I opened it, it was a BROOM. She crossed her arms, smirking. “Get used to it. You’ll end up cleaning streets anyway.”
It CRUSHED me. But I smiled, thanked her, and didn’t let her see me break.
Then, a week later, karma stepped in, and something happened that neither of us saw coming