I Only Got 180 Minutes of My Parents’ Love a Month

The ink on my early-admission nomination form was barely dry when my phone buzzed.

Dad’s assistant had sent me my monthly family-time statement.

'You have 176 minutes remaining from your three-hour family-time allowance this month. Please plan accordingly.'

I stared at the message for a moment.

Then, out of nowhere, I asked,

“Can I cash out the unused time?”

There was a long silence on the other end.

So I sent another message.

“You used to deduct money from my next month’s allowance whenever I went even one minute over.

“If extra time can be converted into money, why can’t unused time be refunded to me?”

When I was twelve and had appendicitis, I used forty extra minutes of Mom’s time.

The next month, my entire allowance was withheld.

That was when I realized that “time is money” had never been a joke.

For the rest of that month, I drank nothing but water at lunch every day.

One afternoon, the girl sitting next to me unwrapped a hot breakfast sandwich.

The smell of sausage and melted cheese drifted over.

I stared at it for so long that I felt saliva gather at the corner of my mouth.

I quickly wiped it away and gulped down several mouthfuls of cold water.

When the hunger got really bad, I even went around to the back of a convenience store after school and dug through the trash.

I was just hoping to find some packaged bread that was past its sell-by date but still unopened.

After that, I never went a single minute over my allotted time again.

When I was fourteen, Grandma died.

My parents had always been busy.

Grandma was the one who picked me up from school.

She cooked for me.

She tucked the blankets around me in the middle of the night.

After the funeral, I threw my arms around Mom and cried.

But even as I held her, my eyes kept drifting over her shoulder to the clock on the wall.

Eleven minutes left.

Seven.

Three.

For the final ten seconds, I watched the second hand tick.

The instant my time was up, I practically sprang out of Mom’s arms.

“Time’s up.”

Mom looked startled.

Then she smiled.

“That’s more like it, Lena.”

“You’re finally learning to be independent.”

My phone lit up.

'Mrs. Hayes says family time can’t be measured in money.'

I stared at the message for a long time.

So they could charge me for going over.

But they couldn’t refund me for using less.

I picked up my early-admission paperwork and was about to leave for school when the front door opened first.

Nina ran inside clutching a pink stuffed animal.

Dad followed behind her carrying souvenir bags from an amusement park.

Mom was still laughing about how loudly Nina had screamed on the roller coaster.

When Dad saw me, something seemed to occur to him.

“Lena, my assistant said you haven’t used up your three hours this month?”

Mom slipped off her shoes.

“Perfect. We’re going back to the amusement park next week. You can come with us this time.”

My fingers tightened around the admission papers.

The truth was, going to an amusement park had been one of my biggest childhood dreams.

Almost everyone in my class had been to one.

They talked about how terrifying it felt when the roller coaster plunged.

How the carousel lit up at night.

They taped photos of themselves in front of the castle onto their pencil cases.

I had never been once.

One year on my birthday, I finally worked up the courage to ask Mom,

“Can you take me sometime?”

She pulled out her phone and calculated for a long time.

“Driving there and back, waiting in line, eating. That’s at least six hours.

“You only have three hours this month.

“The other three would have to come out of next month’s allowance.”

She held the phone out to me.

“You choose.

“Do you want to go to the amusement park, or do you want to keep next month’s spending money?”

I stared at the numbers on the screen for a long time.

Then I shook my head.

“I don’t want to go anymore.”

The next day, the girl sitting next to me showed me a picture of herself in front of the castle.

I stared at it for the entire break.

She finally asked,

“You’ve never been?”

I hurriedly handed the photo back.

“Of course I have.

“It wasn’t that fun.”

After that, I rarely asked my parents to come to school either.

Starting my freshman year of high school, I paid someone two hundred dollars to attend parent-teacher conferences for me.

She took notes.

She stayed until the teachers were finished talking.

And if a meeting ran late, it didn’t cost me the money I needed to eat the next month.

Dad held one of the souvenir bags out to me.

“This time, if we go over three hours, we won’t deduct anything.

“I’ll even give you an extra two hours.”

He smiled.

“That should be enough, right?”

Sitting on top of the bag was a photo of the three of them in front of the castle.

Nina stood in the middle.

I pushed the bag back toward him.

“No, thanks.”

Mom frowned.

“Wasn’t this what you wanted most when you were little?”

“Not anymore.”

I picked up my early-admission paperwork.

That was when Dad finally noticed them.

He snatched them out of my hand.

The moment he saw the name of the university, his face darkened.

“A school out of state?

“Why didn’t you discuss something this important with us?”

I slowly pulled the papers back from him.

The second hand on the wall clock had just passed twelve.

“Because three hours is too much.”

I opened the door.

“I don’t want them anymore.”