Since When Did You Care What Your Parents Thought

since when did you care about what your parents wanted, their trembling hands clutching dusty photo albums, dreams for you etched in whispers, like the fine print on a warranty you never read. smart, they said, smart enough to untangle the wires, but never the knots in your chest. immortal—they wanted you invincible, a timepiece that slowed down only for holidays and funerals, never noticing that your hours burned faster than theirs. abstinence, they prayed, as if purity were a shield against the sharp teeth of the world, but science taught you the chemistry of craving, the physics of loneliness, the biology of need. they wanted you science-oriented, but you learned to dissect their dreams, and the heart, you found, was just another organ pumping blood into someone else's expectations. So since when did you care? you don't. you never did. broke and trying to raise two kid's before age twenty.