I retreated to my room, my sanctuary, and let the tears spill. The remnants of the trophy lay in a small trash bin, jagged pieces glinting like broken dreams. I picked up the largest shard, holding it carefully, feeling its sharp edges. It was a tangible reminder of what I had lost—not the trophy itself, but the acknowledgment of my hard work and the silent pride I had hoped to see in Dad’s eyes.

For the next few days, we lived like strangers. I moved through the house like a ghost, my footsteps silent on the wooden floors. Dad kept himself busy with odd jobs around the house, always avoiding my gaze. The silence at home was deafening, a chorus of unspoken words and unresolved anger.