Evergreen Academy

The car smelled faintly like old coffee and the lemon air freshener Dad had clipped to the vent. Outside, the Los Angeles skyline stretched across the horizon, tall buildings shimmering in the heat like they belonged to someone else’s dream. I pressed my forehead against the cool glass and tried to ignore the knot in my stomach.

Los Angeles. A new city. A new school. A new everything.

Dad drummed his fingers against the steering wheel, humming a song I didn’t recognize. He always hummed when he was nervous, like he thought the sound would fill up the silence.

“Big city, huh?” he said after a moment. “New beginnings, kiddo.”

I didn’t answer. I didn’t want new beginnings. I wanted Mom. I wanted the smell of her cinnamon candles, the sound of her laugh when I made a dumb joke. I wanted our old apartment—even if the landlord banged on the door every other week asking for rent we couldn’t pay.

Dad sighed when I didn’t respond. “Look, I know this is hard—”

“Hard?” My voice cracked, and I stared at the reflection of my brown eyes in the window so I wouldn’t have to look at him. “Mom’s been gone for two months, Dad. Two months. And now we’re just—what? Pretending like she never existed?”

His knuckles tightened on the steering wheel. “That’s not what this is.”

“Then what is it?” I snapped.

For a moment, the car was quiet except for the thrum of traffic around us. Dad’s jaw shifted like he was grinding back all the words he wanted to say. Finally, he exhaled.

“It’s surviving,” he said quietly. “I can’t fix what happened. I can’t bring her back. But I can get you into a good school. I can give you a chance at something better than what we had.”

I closed my eyes. Better. That word cut deep. Nothing was better without her.

The GPS crackled to life, telling us to turn right onto a street lined with palm trees. Each one stretched tall and proud, like they were guarding the neighborhood. When we pulled up to our new apartment building, I stared at the faded stucco walls and the cracked steps. It wasn’t fancy, not like the houses I’d seen on TV. Just another place that didn’t feel like home.

Dad turned off the engine. “Come on. Let’s see our new place.”

The apartment smelled like fresh paint and something sharp, like bleach. A few cardboard boxes sat stacked against the wall, all we owned packed into three piles. I wandered through the small space—two bedrooms, a kitchen barely big enough for a table, and a living room with a window that looked out onto the street.

“This is… nice,” Dad said, too cheerfully.

“It’s small,” I muttered.

He glanced at me, and for the first time that day, his face softened. “It’s not forever, okay? Just until we get on our feet.”

I nodded but didn’t answer. Because nothing felt like forever anymore.

That night, after Dad went to bed, I sat on the floor of my new room surrounded by half-unpacked boxes. I pulled out a photo frame wrapped in newspaper. My fingers trembled as I peeled back the paper, and Mom’s smile lit up the glass.

Her eyes sparkled like she was mid-laugh, like she knew some secret joke. I pressed the frame against my chest and whispered, “I don’t want a new beginning, Mom. I just want you.”

Outside, the city buzzed with life—sirens wailing in the distance, cars rushing down the streets, voices rising from neighbors’ windows. Los Angeles didn’t care about my grief. It kept moving, rushing forward whether I was ready or not.

And as I lay down on the bare mattress, I wondered if I’d ever be ready.