Mom and I trudge up the hill through the warm Kansas rain, lugging my possessions up two flights into my college suite. Dad sits in our van with the Colorado plates, eerily silent after a lifetime of telling me I’d be the one to make it to college. He doesn’t roll down the window when I say goodbye. He doesn’t look me in the eye. He knows my choice is more about escape than education. I sit on the curb soaked with sweat and rain and watch them drive away, not knowing it would be the last goodbye for us.
Diane D. Gillette (she/her) mostly writes short things. She lives and teaches in Chicago. Find Diane at www.digillette.com, on Twitter @digillette, and on Instagram @ddgwriter.