Where love finally speaks louder than expectations.
The mansion was quiet that evening, too quiet for a house so full of light. The kind of silence that wasn't peaceful — it was heavy.
Faye stepped through the front door, medal and envelope still in hand. The results slipped slightly from her grasp, the words "Third Place" staring back at her in gold print.
Not bad. Not failing.
But not perfect either.
"Welcome home, Miss Lopez," one of the maids said softly. "Dinner's ready."
"Thanks," Faye murmured, forcing a small smile.
The dining hall glowed under the crystal chandelier — long table, perfect silverware, imported dishes lined neatly. Her parents were already seated: her father, eyes on his tablet; her mother, finishing a business call. Everything looked poised, successful, untouchable — just like she was expected to be.
When her mother finally looked up, her tone was calm, almost routine.
"We saw the rankings," she said. "Third place this time?"
Faye nodded slightly.
Her father's eyes flickered up from the tablet. "It's fine. There's still the last quarter. You can aim higher next time."
'It's fine.'
Two simple words — and they hurt more than failure.
Faye sat down, spooning soup she couldn't taste. The sound of the silver spoon against porcelain was deafening in the quiet room.
Her chest felt tight.
She had spent years chasing their approval — collecting medals, certificates, applause. But the one thing she needed most — warmth — had always been missing.
Her voice came out small at first. "Do you know… how hard I've been trying?"
Her mother blinked, surprised. "Of course, honey. We—"
"No." Faye's voice cracked. "You don't know."
Her father set his tablet down, silent.
Tears welled in her eyes, hot and unrelenting. "I've been winning since I was twelve. I've done everything — Olympiads, science fairs, sleepless nights. And every single time, I thought, maybe I'll be able to make you say, youl say you're proud of me But it's always, 'There's still next time,' or, 'Your cousin did better.'"
Her mother's hand froze halfway to her glass.
Faye's shoulders shook. "I'm so tired. I keep pushing because I thought if I stopped being perfect, I'd disappoint you. But I'm not a machine. I get tired. I get scared. I just—" her voice broke— "I just want to be enough for you. Im sorry"
The silence that followed was heavy — the kind that fills every corner of a big, empty house.
Then, her mother's chair scraped softly against the floor. She stood, crossed the table, and pulled Faye into a tight hug.
"Oh, Faye…" Her voice trembled — the first time Faye had ever heard it that way. "We didn't realize we were hurting you. We just wanted you to be ready for the world. We thought… pushing you meant protecting you."
Faye's tears stained her mother's shoulder. "I just wanted to hear that you're proud of me."
Her father stood too, his voice quiet but firm. "We are proud of you, sweetheart. More than you'll ever know. You've achieved so much — not just in grades, but in who you've become. You've worked hard, stayed kind, and never gave up. You've always been enough."
Her mother brushed a strand of hair from Faye's face, eyes soft with guilt and love. "You don't have to prove anything to us anymore. We're sorry if we made you feel that way."
Faye's sob turned into a small, fragile laugh. "So… you're really proud?"
Her mother smiled through tears. "So proud. Third place or tenth place, it doesn't matter. You're our daughter — and that's what makes us proud."
Faye exhaled shakily, years of pressure finally unraveling inside her chest.
The mansion didn't feel so cold anymore.
For the first time in a long time, dinner wasn't silent. Her parents asked about her friends, her upcoming graduation, even Jason — and Faye smiled, truly smiled, as she told them.
Outside, the night breeze brushed against the curtains, soft and freeing.
And for the first time, Samantha Faye Lopez didn't feel like she had to be perfect.
She was simply — enough.