New York University — Psychology

At three years old, my dad dropped me off at my first boarding school with a board game of Risk, handing me the task of navigating life alone. Years later, during lockdown at twelve, I played Risk again. This time, as I commanded my army, my opponent's forces scattered, leaving them vulnerable. But a few dice rolls later, I lost everything. It was a cruel déjà vu I didn’t understand. My dad had left me to rule my two-dimensional world alone. In Risk, I could victoriously conquer territories; but in the real world, I was left with the pain of abandonment.

On my ninth birthday, I sat on the edge of my bed, clutching a teddy bear, my legs swinging nervously. My heart raced as I glanced at the clock for the hundredth time-11:59 am. Any moment now. I was about to see my dad after six long years. Minutes ticked by, turning into hours. My excitement gave way to restlessness. At 3:36 pm, my hostel parent let slip, “You know, afternoon isn't quite the same as noon, right?” My heart sank as I realized the unthinkable: this moment of hope might be the last memory I’d ever have of my dad.

Every day since then felt like a battle. In classes my hand stayed glued to my side, afraid to rise and risk the sting of embarrassment, like watching my army on the brink of annihilation, knowing that each move could lead to crushing defeat. I could hear a mocking voice in my head, urging me to stay quiet, to avoid risk. When my classmates told stories of their parents on career day, their plural 's' mocked me. In their world of two, I stood alone.