Growing up I never liked my parents. I didn’t hate them, that’s for sure, however, they seemed indifferent. I’d observe other parents who’d come to every school event, help out with anything their child participated in, and pick them up on time every day, at 3 o’clock sharp. It was hard to admit but deep down I couldn’t help but feel envious of anyone with parents like that.

“Remember you need to finish your homework before you go out to play,” the extended care worker scolded me. She was an intimidating figure, with neatly styled brown-gray hair and wrinkles tracing almost every corner of her face. 

I peer over to the clock. 4:55. Then I wandered my eyes towards the door where two eighth-grade girls sat outside at a table, laughing and talking to each other. Their skirts were rolled up to their shorts, their polos were two sizes too big, and their blonde hair was tied up in ponytails. Ideally, everyone wanted to be them. 

5:10. The clock seemed to never move. Around this time, parents start rushing in. One by one, each child is getting checked out as the room begins to feel empty. The two blonde girls rush back into the room with their backpacks on and soccer bags in hand. Their mother stood tall with long blond hair pushed back by oversized sunglasses, and finally checked them out. 5:25. 

I continued to watch the clock tick by, 5:30 came and went then soon enough it was already six o’clock. All the chairs were stacked orderly on top of the tables. The room consisted of another girl my age, her older sister, my sister, and of course myself. The workers had run out of small talk, so everyone sat in awkward silence. 

Eventually, the girl my age and her sister were picked up. Time continued to move by, slower and slower.

Thirty minutes later my dad came rushing into the room. He talked to the worker, laughing it off before grabbing my sister and I. We sat in silence, as a song in a foreign language I could not understand played on the radio as we made our way home. 

I always felt guilty for resenting my parents for always being the last to come pick us up. Often I’d wonder what it’d be like to have one of those picture-perfect parents who’d only appear in movies.

However years later, when the pandemic hit and everyone was reduced to their home, I’d listen from my bed every night to them working long hours, sometimes reaching past midnight. Overhearing this, I realized how I may not have the parents who were first to everything or the parents who were constantly present, but they truly did care – a lot.