My phone bleeps and I roll over onto my stomach. The air
mattress deflates a little. God, who could be texting me at this hour? Light
filters in through slattern windows, though it’s manmade light, running down
the window like an egg yolk. It’s one in the morning, Siri tells me. Thanks,
Siri.
“Good night Ali! LY!” The text reads; it’s my dad.
He’s done this almost every night like clockwork; I guess I
know his schedule better now that I’m away. And every time it makes my heart
soften a little: I am what he thinks about before he hits the hay, his daughter
halfway across the country.
Suddenly, the prospect of leaving again doesn’t seem so
ominous.
I sneak a glance at Sarah and Elizabeth, both sprawled out
in slumber, and wonder what communications with their parents have been like.
My parents afford me a lot of freedom, not that watered-down freedom that is so
often force fed to teenagers. I mean real freedom, the freedom to explore
myself and the environment I find myself in.
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