It was boring another day at school following the same boring routine: I went to my boring classes, did my boring work, and then waited for the boring bell to ring to go to the next boring class. My next boring class I attended began as every other boring class. It was my favorite subject but my least favorite teacher. He was always so cheerful and happy and would tell our class some story to entertain us. Every. Single. Day. I don’t remember exactly what the point of the story was that day but it went along the lines of telling us how blessed we are and how those less fortunate have to suffer. I was already having a bad day and I mumbled something saying how easy it would be to end life if I were poor. He heard it. I meant what I said, and it couldn’t be taken back. Ugh. Here we go.

Then we had to work on a worksheet to practice our new unit. He walked around trying to help the students who were in trouble and eventually walked past me.
“Stay after class,” he said.

My day had gotten worse. I continued doing my work and was annoyed, frustrated, and just wanted to leave. The bell rang. He came over and moved a desk closer to me.
“You know why you’re here, right?”
“Yeah,” I sighed.

He started asking questions about my life, my childhood, why I said what I did, and so forth. I was upset that he held me after class to talk to me. He kept asking questions or stating something about his life and I just nodded, wanting the conversation to end.
“Now I can’t say I know how you feel, because my parents didn’t get divorced, and I was a happy child,” he said.
What!? Really!? I was shocked when he said that. Out of everyone I have talked to about this they all have said that they know exactly how I feel, but when he said he honestly had no clue, I was of relieved because I knew I wouldn’t have to sit through the I-know-what-you’re-going-through speech.
“So what about your parents? How’s your dad?”
The mentioning of my dad made me very angry. I felt like my dad left me as a child and I had nothing positive to say about him. When he asked me about my mom I could only say positive things. After asking me about my life he started telling me his childhood story trying to relate to me, but I was just annoyed. After he finished his story he said, “You know you really mean a lot to your parents.”
He started crying. My teacher started crying. He kept telling me how important I was and I was sad because I really disagreed on that matter. My parents provided for me, sure, but providing someone with food, clothing, and shelter doesn’t make one a good parent, just a parent that can afford to do so. Eventually I started crying, yet I didn’t understand why. I was upset with the whole topic but it wasn’t anything tear-worthy. My brain just reacted to something he said or did and had me start crying. Maybe I’m just empathetic.
“Those thoughts in your head are lies,” he said. “You need to get them out.”
What!? Is he serious!? That was when I got mad. Calling my thoughts lies? He had no right to tell me what I thought was wrong. He told me I could leave but I was going to even if he hadn’t. I left furious. At first I actually appreciated what he was saying minus that fact that he had to as a result of his job. However after saying that my thoughts were lies, I couldn’t stand it anymore.
I couldn’t think of anything positive about that experience. He said I could come talk to him again if I ever felt like it but I knew I never would. He may have tried to make me happier but he didn’t. He made me feel worse.
I don’t know what even happened after that. For some reason when I got home I ran upstairs and started crying my eyes out. Maybe something he said was right, maybe my parents weren’t as bad as I thought. I lay there for an hour just crying under my covers trying to hide from the world. I had had it and was very depressed.
The school year continued and I could never look at him the same way. My mom told me to pretend it didn’t happen but I couldn’t. After class the next day he said something similar, “we start fresh every day”, but I couldn’t. I was left devastated. The school year continued and I was just constantly angry with him.
That was the end of it. I went to school every day having to be taught again and again by the man I hated. No matter what he or my mom told me, I could never forget that conversation, the image burned into my brain of him crying over the life of a student he barely knew. The sheer fact alone that he made me cry upset me.
My world changed. I always thought my parents didn’t love me, but maybe I was wrong. Is it possible that my teacher was right? But how does a man who hasn’t been through this before know this? My parents, who I thought were so cold, just did the bare necessities. Were they just doing their job? They didn’t seem to be there for me, but does that mean they don’t love me? No. My parents love me, they always have. I just didn’t realize that until that talk with my teacher. As much as it upset me that I had to talk to him and how he tried to think his life was similar to mine, he was right, my parents love me.