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When I was ten, my parents divorced and remarried, leaving me with my grandfather. The next time I saw them was the summer after graduation. They came to the restaurant where I worked to book a private room. My father walked in with his stepson, smiling as he said, "My son scored 1550 on his SAT. Give us the biggest room." My mother came with her young daughter, asking for the room next door. "It's my daughter's seventh birthday. I need a big one, too." They glanced at each other, then looked away. "Getting her such a big party at this age," my father said. "You really do spoil her." My mother replied politely, "Your son got such a great score. He'll go far." Neither of them recognized me, the student who got a perfect 1600, their real son. I wiped my hands clean of grease and wrote down their requests. My father ordered a seafood feast because his son loved it. My mother brought a homemade cake and asked to store it in the fridge. Before leaving, my father casually asked, "What about that one? Did you hear from him? Did he even take the test?" My mother paused. "No idea. He never contacted me." I didn't look up. I typed back a message to the real estate agent. Once I sold my grandfather's house, I could finally leave this city without looking back.