I don't really want to go either. You're my parents. Maybe younger, but when I look at you, I see them.
My first day of eighth grade was sort of bad. Some stuff happened, I won't go into it, but I didn't end up staying the whole day. I got beat up again. I was sort of a mess, emotionally. It was a bad place. But then you and dad, later, you guys came into my room and you had a cherry pie. You came over to my bed and you gave it to me and you said it was my pie, and dad sort of chuckled and pointed to a little post-it note with my name on it. Then later on in the week, during art, Mr. Piretti asked us to draw something that made us feel happy.
Of course then he tried to make us show them in class and I called him a hippie stoner poser and got suspended for three days (so, uh, look out for that) but I kept the drawing. I want you to see it. It's folded up in the little pocket at the back of my sketchpad.
(OOC: What she'll find in there is a picture that Patrick clearly spent some time and effort on. There's no comic book superheroes or samurai or anything in this one, though. It's just mom and dad and him, and they're all smiling.)