Dear Diary, 6/29/20XX
Leaving my childhood home wasn't some grand affair or multilayered drama. I just walked out to go to work one morning and never came back. That doesn’t mean it wasn’t planned, of course. I was meticulous; I have always been meticulous. Every detail down to the day was planned out, and it was perfect.
The first phase of the plan was simple and subtle, but agonizingly slow. When I first heard the whispers in my mind that I don’t want to live here anymore, I was a teenager. I shouldn’t dwell on it too much, but the thing that made me want to leave was rather small, in hindsight. I was always a curious kid: the type of person whose soul burned with the all-consuming desire to… know. My parents were knowledgeable in a great variety of subjects: photography, computer science, mathematics, literature, economics, and more. And sometimes, they would impart such knowledge onto me. But only when they wanted to. When I was a little girl I grew used to being shoved away from conversations, with condescending remarks like “the big kids are talking”. When I was about 14, I walked into a particularly heated political debate, and my dad revealed his true colors:
“No one gives a fuck about what you think.”
It was not the first time he said something that made me want to cry, nor was it the most awful thing he had said to me, but if I were to talk about those times I’d be here all day. The thing that made this moment memorable to me was that it was the first time he said it out in the open, in front of guests like it was no big deal. It was at that moment, realizing that my dad really cared that little, I resolved to start making plans to move out for good. This has nothing to do with the plan, does it? Bah, I wasted too much time on this dead old life. Anyway, I had no income in high school, aside from the occasions where a lazy (or thoughtful) relative decided to give me money for a Christmas or birthday present. Getting a job was forbidden at my age, so the escape plan started by just saving that gift money. By the time I had graduated high school, I had just under $1,000 in my bank account: the largest sum of money I’d ever had at once at that age, but not nearly enough.
Things picked up in college. I had received two blessings at once: a full-ride scholarship to my university of choice, and the permission-- or more accurately, the order, to get a job. I couldn’t pretend the stress of juggling part-time work, university, and keeping my plans secret didn’t get to me sometimes. And yet, the single-minded determination to see this through, to get out of this house and never return, kept me moving forward. After graduation from university, my meager $1,000 grew twenty-fold, and it still wasn’t enough.
By that point I knew exactly where I wanted to go: there was a house on Hickory Rise in upstate New York, all the way across the country. It cost exactly $249,990, and my God, it was beautiful. It had four bedrooms and three bathrooms: bigger than I’d need to live alone, but my heart had wandered many times since I was in high school. I knew I’d find love one day, and I wanted to future-proof my house rather than have to immediately ditch it and redo the entire process when I start a family. In the meantime, I could build a studio in one of the empty bedrooms. There was a balcony on the roof where I imagined gazing upon a freshly manicured garden in the spring, and an in-land pool that looked just like a natural pond. The minute I looked at it, I wanted to cry: this was home.
Sorry, I got too sentimental. Regarding the cost of the house, there was no way I’d be able to pay the entire quarter-million up front. But buying a house is still really expensive: I needed a fifth of the cost for the down payment alone. Beyond that, I needed good credit, so the bank would be willing to give me a mortgage for the rest of the house. When I bought things with my own money, I had to remember to buy them with credit cards and pay them off immediately. The plane ticket would cost somewhere between $1,500 and $2,000 depending on the day. Then I would need money to replace my possessions, which I had been slowly selling off over the years to ensure that I could travel light and not raise suspicion on the day I finally left. After all that, I needed enough money to last a month or two without a job: I wouldn’t be able to continue working at my old office from my new home, so I’d have to quit before I leave and make arrangements for a job in New York. By the time I finally left, I had been out of college for half a decade, and I had over $80,000 socked away. I finally, finally had enough.
Fourteen days prior to the day I left home for good, I sent my boss my two-weeks notice. I told no one else, not even my coworkers, that I was quitting. On my last work day, when my shift was over, I went to the airport instead of going back to the house. I took the time to swap out my SIM card: the final phase in my plan to disappear. I doubt anyone noticed a thing until the dead of night, when I was long gone.
I’d never been able to sleep in vehicles, no matter how tired I was, and this plane was no different. Most of the rest of the passengers were fast asleep, but there I was, floating above the clouds, bursting with joy inside but outwardly still. Despite finally being free from my family, the only thing I could think of while on that plane was my uncle. Uncle AJ used to be a drug dealer, way back when I was too young to understand what a drug dealer was. He once described to me the feeling he had when he got out of prison: he felt the beauty of everything he didn’t get to do inside. He felt the power of every right he said he was supposed to have, that had been warped into a privilege in prison. He felt the joy of every time he got to choose what he wanted to do that day, rather than having someone else make that choice for him. For the first time in his life, he felt the weight of the freedom he’d been denied: “like an angel whose wings grew back after being clipped,” he would say. Uncle AJ told me that the feeling he got from being free, and knowing what he had to lose if he was arrested again, motivated him to stay on the straight path. He never went to prison again.
I was a little girl, no more than 9 or 10 years old, when Uncle AJ told me this story. At the time, freedom was just a nebulous concept to me: this abstract thing that “America” fought for during the Revolutionary War, and again during the Civil War. Since my parents controlled every aspect of my life at the time, I had never tasted this freedom Uncle AJ saw as so valuable. If my uncle’s wings had been clipped while he was in prison, I hadn’t even started growing mine by the time he got out, so I never understood what made them so special to him. It’s only now, almost two decades later, that I could grasp what Uncle AJ felt as he stepped out of those prison gates. This was what it meant to be free. It meant not having to look over your shoulder in your own room. It meant being able to watch whatever you wanted, play whatever you wanted, talk to whoever you wanted, without the fear that some of your belongings would be destroyed or you’d be forcibly removed from contact with your friends. It meant never having to beg your father to let you step a toe out of the school, work, home routine-- never having to seek anyone’s approval to go somewhere or do something you enjoyed. It meant flying thousands of miles away from the place you lived in your whole life, taking in the starry sky and crappy airplane food, and just… vanishing into the night. Maybe that’s why Uncle AJ moved to New Hampshire. I told myself I’d never have to see my relatives again, but I considered making an exception for him. Not now, though: I wouldn't want him to panic and tell my parents where I went. Not when I was so close.
The sun began to rise into the horizon after several more hours of sleepless dreaming. Finally the plane was landing. I was in New York City. There was still a ways to go since my new home was upstate, but I was giddy just to be where I was. So giddy that I almost left the airport without my bag, and had to go back to get it. I stayed at a hotel in the city that night. I didn’t want to, the money could have been better spent, but leaving my bag in the airport was very nearly a disastrous mistake, and I knew I was getting too tired to carry out the rest of the plan. I’d have to take the bus up to my new home the next day.
Almost a whole day later, I finally arrived at my new home. My brand new keys glistened like gold in the moonlight. In that moment they felt like the most beautiful things I’d ever laid eyes on: more than just a way in, the keys were a symbol that this place was mine and mine alone. I unlocked the door and a warm light shined through, inviting me inside. My new house was completely bare, with no signs of whoever may have owned the place before me. The halls were silent and still, save for the bounce of my footsteps as I toured the house. The kitchen cabinets were open and hollow, inviting the arrival of new spices and dishware. I could already taste the sweet confections I’d make for myself here– cakes and candies and chocolate-covered fruits– I could hardly wait. The bedroom had nothing but a plain bed that felt like cotton candy. And the bed wasn’t that big, so the room had plenty of space for decorations. The balcony had nothing on it but the comforting summer breeze. This was an empty shell, a blank slate waiting to be filled with new furniture, new memories, new people. It was the home I had always dreamed of having. I sat down on the bed and released a breath I had been holding for a decade. I knew there was more work to do: this house wasn’t meant to be empty forever. But for that moment, all I wanted to do was sit on that bed and take in the euphoria. I did it. I escaped, I was free, I had a home that I owned, I didn’t have to answer to anyone, I earned my wings.
I was interrupted by the vibration of my cell phone. I did swap my SIM card out when I was on the plane, right? I didn’t even tell anyone what this brand new number was. Who would be calling it? For a moment I dismissed it as a scam call, but my curiosity overtook me, and I decided to check. The incoming number read: 761-555-3952.
It was… my father’s phone number. I knew the SIM card had been correctly swapped out: my phone would have listed his name otherwise. My head began to spin. How did he find this number? Who told him? Who spied on me? I couldn’t know. I couldn’t do anything about it, except sit there and hope the ringing would stop. It took about an eon for that to happen. When I finally had the bravery to pick up my phone again, I noticed that my father had left 7 voicemails. I deleted them all immediately: I didn’t want to hear a single breath of his voice. The house was back to its empty silence, and I took a breath. For now, my dad, or anyone else for that matter, had no way of contacting me unless I wanted them to. For now, I was safe. But I knew that would change. That call sent a message: this wasn’t over yet.
Beatrice Windstrom