The summer of 2011 was coming to a close. The University of California Berkeley summer program had come to an end, and the thought of leaving my friends was upsetting. I had developed deep and meaningful relationships with people from all over the world and I was reluctant to leave. I had even met a girl, who my sixth grade brain thought was the love of my life.
The thought of missing my friends was selfishly overpowering, and it drained the enthusiasm away from seeing my family for the first time in four weeks. They had driven up six hours earlier in the day to come pick me up, and I greeted them with a sour look and no energy. Even though I was rude and negligent, I was still able to pick up on something strange. Something was wrong with my parents, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on what it was. My mother kept breaking down into tears and my father kept comforting her, and I assumed that it was just a result of my behavior and that it wasn’t a big deal. If I’m being completely honest, I didn’t really care what was wrong. I was blinded by nostalgia and I focused more on the people I had just left behind than the people who had been there for me for the entirety of my life right in front of me. The six hour drive home that followed was miserable, as I refused to talk to anyone. My parents made multiple efforts to begin conversation, as they were curious how the program went. I deflected their efforts and put in my earphones, like any sour pre-teen would. I thought that