The air in the dining room hung heavy and thick, suffocating with a tension that pressed in on Mia. Her mother, Arabella, sat slumped at the table, hair disheveled, shoulders sagged, and eyes fixated on a white paper clutched tightly in her hands. It was an unfamiliar sight; her parents never fought, not seriously. This was different.

“Did my school send you my report sheet in the mail?” Mia winced, gesturing towards the paper. Her grades weren't great, but surely not enough to elicit this pain.

Arabella’s eyes, red-rimmed and dark-circled, finally lifted. A dry chuckle escaped her lips, followed by a shocking, raw question: “Can you believe the nerve of that bitch?” Mia recoiled, never having heard her mother curse with such fury.

Beside the first paper lay another, a handwritten letter, stained with what looked like teardrops. Mia, despite her internal struggle with invading privacy, reached for it. Her mother, lost in her own anguish, didn't even notice. As Mia read, the words painted a picture of a life ruined, a desperate plea, and a legacy left in Arabella’s reluctant hands.