I ran away over 13 years
ago. I was four years old and my older
brother and I were tired of bowing to the demands of our youngest brother,
being forced to eat broccoli, and being asked to make our beds. Sick of the choking injustice, we hatched a
plan to leave and never come back. I
packed up my Barbies, Wood-Kin paper dolls, Jelllies sandals, and blanket into
my kindergarten backpack and met Adam at the front door. Clutching his pillowcase full of Hot Wheels,
he fearlessly led the way off the porch and down the sidewalk. We made it to the end of the driveway before
our grand escapade was halted due to the spying eyes of our younger
brother. My mom called us back inside
and sentenced us to the horror of Windex-ing the bathroom mirrors.
Since our compromised
mission, I have often contemplated running away. I even packed a bag of t-shirts but decided
to stay because my mom made brownies.
One time, I declared out of rage, “I’m running away!” To which my mother
coolly replied, “Go on, there’s the door.”
With that challenge in mind, I grew up slowly realizing that emptying
the dishwasher was not a prison sentence and David, though the baby of the family
was not the designated favorite child.
My parents were not monsters, and taking out the trash required little
to no effort at all. Turning 16 and
receiving a car should have reignited my desire for escape, but I realized I
had homework to do and a dog to feed.
But the most peculiar thing is that when I wanted so desperately to
leave, time had held me captive. But
with college on the horizon, time has set me free. As it even pushes me
forward, my mother’s voice echoes in my head.
“Go on, there’s the door.”
