Expectations

In the small, picturesque town of Eldermere, nestled between emerald hills and a gentle river, lived a boy named Callum. He was the youngest son in a family of high achievers. His father, Edward, was a celebrated physicist; his mother, Margaret, a renowned pianist who had performed in concert halls across Europe; and his older sister, Eleanor, was well on her way to becoming a surgeon. From the moment Callum could walk, people whispered about what greatness he might achieve.

Callum, however, was different. Where his family thrived in intellectual pursuits, he found solace in the quiet company of nature. His happiest days were spent sketching the landscapes of Eldermere, capturing the way sunlight spilled through the trees or how the river rippled under the wind. But in a household where success was measured by accolades and titles, his passion for art was seen as a charming hobby at best, a waste of time at worst.

The expectations began innocuously enough. At five, when Callum built a tower of blocks, his father leaned down and said, "A budding engineer, perhaps?" At seven, when he aced his math test, his mother clapped her hands and declared, "Another brilliant mind in the family!" By the time he turned twelve, the whispers of the townspeople grew louder. "With such a pedigree," they said, "he’ll surely do great things."

Callum tried to meet these expectations, he truly did. He enrolled in advanced classes, joined the science club, and even participated in a regional mathematics competition. But every effort felt like trudging uphill in heavy boots. His heart wasn’t in equations or theories; it was in the vibrant strokes of his paintbrush and the stories he wove through his drawings.

One day, during a family dinner, Eleanor announced that she had been accepted into one of the country’s top medical schools. Cheers erupted around the table, glasses clinked, and Edward’s eyes glistened with pride. Then all eyes turned to Callum.

"So, Callum," Edward said, "what’s next for you? Have you thought about university? Perhaps following Eleanor’s footsteps into medicine?"

Callum hesitated, the weight of their expectations like a stone in his chest. "I… I’m not sure yet," he mumbled.

His father’s brows furrowed. "You’re almost sixteen. It’s time to start thinking seriously."

After dinner, Callum retreated to his room, where his sketchbook lay open on the desk. The unfinished drawing of a sparrow in mid-flight stared back at him, its wings frozen in graphite. He picked up his pencil but couldn’t bring himself to continue. Instead, he stared out the window, wondering if there was a place in the world for someone like him—someone whose dreams didn’t fit neatly into the mold his family had cast.

The breaking point came during a school art exhibition. Callum had secretly submitted one of his pieces: a watercolor painting of Eldermere at sunset. The colors bled together in a symphony of golds and purples, capturing the town’s serene beauty. To his surprise, the painting won first prize. The local newspaper even wrote an article about it, calling him "Eldermere’s rising artist."

When his parents saw the article, their reactions were muted. Margaret smiled politely. "It’s lovely, dear. But remember, art is a hard way to make a living."

Edward was less tactful. "Winning a local contest is nice, but it’s not a career. You’ve got potential, Callum. Don’t waste it."

Their words stung, but they also ignited something in Callum. For the first time, he realized he couldn’t keep living under the weight of their expectations. If he wanted to be happy, he needed to carve his own path—even if it disappointed them.

Over the next year, Callum worked tirelessly on his art, saving money from odd jobs to buy supplies. He applied to an art school in the city without telling his parents. When the acceptance letter arrived, he knew he couldn’t hide it any longer.

The night he told them was fraught with tension. Edward’s face turned red; Margaret looked close to tears. "You’re throwing away your future," Edward said. "Do you know how competitive the art world is?"

"I do," Callum replied, his voice steady. "But this is my future, not yours. I’ve spent my whole life trying to be what you want me to be. Now it’s time for me to be who I am."

For a moment, silence filled the room. Then Eleanor spoke up. "He’s right. We’ve been so focused on what we think he should be that we haven’t listened to what he wants."

Margaret’s eyes softened, and she reached for Callum’s hand. "If this is what makes you happy," she said, "then we’ll support you."

Edward sighed, the lines on his face deepening. "It won’t be easy," he said. "But I suppose nothing worth doing ever is."

Years later, Callum stood in a bustling gallery in the heart of the city, surrounded by his paintings. Critics and art enthusiasts mingled, praising his work. As he looked around, he spotted his family in the crowd. Edward and Margaret beamed with pride, and Eleanor gave him a thumbs-up.

For the first time, Callum felt truly free. He had defied their expectations, but in doing so, he had found something even greater: himself.