“I understand,” I replied.
“Good,” my father said. “The priority now is continuity.”
Another word that meant obedience without having to say it. What they meant was stability, predictability, the preservation of the version of me everyone already understood.
I looked again at my reflection in the dark window, at my composure.
Do I know how to look any other way anymore?
My heartbeat raced.
“There’s something I should tell you.” The words felt heavy in my mouth, like contraband I had carried too long.
My mother responded immediately. “This isn’t the right moment,” she said in a smooth tone. “Let’s keep things uncomplicated until after the Games.”
“Anything unrelated to performance can wait,” my father agreed. “We don’t need unnecessary distractions right now.”
Distractions. Risk factors to be managed until competition concluded successfully.
My chest tightened. “I’m not talking about performance.”
“That’s exactly why it can wait.” My mother’s voice was still soft, still kind, which somehow made it worse. “You’ve worked too hard to jeopardize focus now.”
I swallowed hard past the lump in my throat. “Do you want to know if I’m all right? Do you care?” Words I had not intended to sound so blunt.
The silence that followed lasted a second or two.
“Of course we care,” my mother said quickly.
“But?”
God, I was so tired.
My father answered this time. “What matters right now is that you remain steady.”
That final word settled over the conversation like a lid closing.
“You represent more than yourself,” he continued. “You always have.”
I nodded even though they could not see me. “Yes, I know.”
“And that’s why we’re proud of you,” my mother added. “You’ve never made things difficult.”
The words hit harder than criticism would have, because she meant them lovingly. That was the tragedy of it. They loved me. I had never doubted that. But their love existed alongside conditions so deeply woven into all of us that none of us even named them aloud anymore.
Be disciplined.
Be careful.
Be legible.
Be the version of yourself the world already understands.
“I’ll call after the free skate,” my father said. “Once everything settles.”
As though my life were an administrative complication temporarily interrupting competition season.
“Try to sleep,” my mother said, her tone gentle. “You always perform better when you’re rested.” Then the call ended.
