"Oh no"

Sweat beads form on my forehead, sliding down as I try to wipe them away. My hands are clammy, gripping my shorts nervously. My teeth nibble anxiously on my lower lip, a habit that now leaves it feeling raw. I curl my toes inside my sneakers, as if the tension in my body needs an outlet. My heart is racing, so fast it feels like it might burst. My ears feel hot, my face flushed. And my mind? My mind is running faster than my heart—100 miles per hour, easily. I can't stop the questions from swirling. What's going to happen to me? How much trouble will I be in this time? How long will the lecture last? How mad will they be?

Will they let me play in the championship game? Or will my punishment be not playing? They can’t do that, can they? This is the biggest game of the year. My ears burn hotter as I think about it. How loud will my mom be? And then, the question that stabs me right in the chest: Will they still love me?

It's far too late to turn around now. We’ve been on the road for over three hours. The stadium is just ten minutes away. The whistle to start the game will blow in an hour. If I tell them now, there might just be enough time to find a store—barely. I wipe my hands on my shorts again, but it doesn’t help. Sweat keeps coming. My brain tells me to just do it—to speak up. But my body hesitates, frozen by the thought of my mom’s reaction.

She’s sitting in the passenger seat, calmly reading a book, her lips curling into a faint smile. Her serenity is a stark contrast to the storm inside me. I can’t ruin it, I think. But I also can't keep this secret any longer.

My dad, sitting in the driver’s seat, might seem more intimidating at first glance. He’s bigger, with a booming voice when he’s angry. But if you ask me, my mom is a hundred times scarier. She yells louder. Her voice cuts deeper. My dad’s expectations for me are high, but my mom’s? Her standards are so high they’re almost out of reach. She demands the best—always. And she doesn’t just get mad; she gets disappointed. That’s worse. Much worse.

This isn’t the first time I’ve messed up, of course. Memories flood my mind, amplifying my anxiety. There was that time I failed a test in school. I didn’t want them to know, so I hid the paper under my mattress, thinking it would never come to light. For days, I lived in blissful ignorance, convinced I’d gotten away with it. Until one night at dinner. There it was—my mom, staring at me with eyes wide and unblinking, laser beams of disappointment shooting straight through me. The failed test landed on the table with a quiet but thunderous thud. My mom didn’t yell immediately. She didn’t have to. Her silence spoke volumes, and my shame felt louder than any words could. But then, the yelling began. She tore into me, her voice sharp as a blade, going on about how hard they work to give me opportunities I shouldn’t squander.

After hours of sitting at the table with a plate of pot roast—my least favorite food in the world, by the way—I vowed to never fail a test again. The punishment wasn’t just the yelling or the dinner; it was the weight of her disappointment. It lingered, gnawing at me for days.

And now here I am, facing another mistake. Another failure. My chest tightens. My lips are trembling now, and I bite down harder to keep them from quivering. My mind races, cycling through different scenarios. What will the next five minutes look like? What will my mom do? The possibilities play out in vivid, terrifying detail.

She’ll turn to face me, her expression flipping from calm to furious in an instant. Her voice will rise, sharp and piercing, as she yells about how irresponsible I am. How I waited until the very last moment to say something. How inconvenient this will make the rest of the day. How they’ve done so much for me, trusted me to handle things on my own, and I’ve let them down. I’ll be grounded, or maybe worse—I won’t be allowed to play in the championship game. My dad will sigh, his trademark deep, frustrated exhale, and silently wait for her tirade to end. He won’t add much, but his silence will sting. It’ll be clear that he’s disappointed too.

My throat tightens as the tears threaten to spill. Is this the last day my parents will trust me? Will this one mistake reset everything? Will my mom stop letting me be independent? Is she going to start micromanaging every aspect of my life again? Picking out my clothes? Walking me to class? Sitting in on my practices? The thought is both ridiculous and terrifying. She wouldn’t go that far... would she?

But then, another thought creeps in. Despite all her intensity, my mom does love me. She says so all the time. She knows everyone makes mistakes. She understands I’m just a kid. Maybe—just maybe—I’m overreacting. Maybe when I tell her, she’ll surprise me. Maybe she’ll look up from her book, smile softly, and tell me it’s okay. That these things happen. That we can fix it. My heart clings to this hope, even as the rest of me is consumed by dread.

Time is running out. The exit for the stadium is fast approaching, and so is the moment of truth. My heart feels like it’s going to pound out of my chest. My ears are burning, my hands are shaking, and sweat is practically pouring off me. But I can’t wait any longer. This is it.

“Mom?” My voice cracks. “Dad?”

They both look at me, sensing the urgency. My mom lowers her book, her small smile still in place. I take a deep breath, trying to steady my voice, but it doesn’t help.

“I... I forgot my cleats at home.”

The words hang in the air, heavy with tension. My heart pounds, waiting for their reactions.