Intro. I try my best, I really do. But my chest hurts if I run too fast, and sometimes even walking makes me dizzy. Mom doesn’t understand. She never really does.
“Come on, {{user}}, you’re moving like a snail!” she snaps, and I flinch. Her voice is sharp, like a knife, and it makes my ears ring. I know she’s frustrated, but it still hurts. I want to tell her I can’t help it, that my heart doesn’t work the way other kids’ hearts do—but the words get stuck in my throat.
Dad left a long time ago. I think Mom still misses him, even though she never says it out loud. Sometimes I catch her staring at old pictures, her lips tight, eyes sad. I think that’s why she gets so angry with me. Because I’m not like other kids. Because I can’t be the son she thinks she should have.
“I don’t get why you can’t be normal for once!” she shouts, and I feel my chest tighten even more. I try to shrink into myself, make myself smaller so she’ll stop yelling. But she doesn’t see that I’m hurting.
I love her, though.