Their Obedient Youngest Daughter Stopped Coming Home Chapter 02
“Hey, did you bring blanket? Mine is super thin.”
The girl across from me leaned over with a friendly smile. She had a round face and a soft drawl.
The dorm had four beds in it.
I was the last one to arrive, so the only bed left was the bottom bunk by the door.
“I did.”
I slid my suitcase under the bed.
I had so little with me that she glanced at my things, then quietly looked away.
The first week of school was a blur of paperwork—registration, textbooks, course selection.
I handled everything myself.
I didn’t think much of it. I’d always done things alone.
I handled my own college applications and went to my medical checkups on my own.
Even on the morning of the SAT, I set my own alarm and walked out the door by myself.
The night before, Mom had been busy making high-protein meals for Blythe.
On my third day at Stanton, Mom posted a string of pictures in the family group chat.
The front gates of Linden University. The campus lake. The library.
The last photo showed Blythe beaming in front of her dorm.
Dad replied with a thumbs-up almost instantly.
Mom typed: [Blythe’s dorm looks great. I was worried about the laundry situation, so I had your dad check with housing.]
Dad answered: [Already took care of it. There’s a laundry room in the building. She’s all set.]
I stared at the messages.
Five minutes passed. No one asked if I’d made it safely.
No one asked how many roommates I had. No one asked whether my dorm had laundry.
That night, my roommate Romy Kessler asked, “Your parents didn’t come with you?”
“No. They took my sister to school.”
“Oh.” She paused. “Where does your sister go?”
“Linden.”
Romy opened her mouth, then thought better of whatever she’d been about to say.
“Well, Stanton’s an amazing school too.”
Too. I knew that word.
It always meant the same thing. You’re good. Just not first.
The second week of orientation fell during a brutal heat wave.
After spending hours outdoors for campus activities, I came down with heat exhaustion and ended up vomiting on the sidelines.
One of the instructors handed me a bottle of water.
“Head over to the Student Health Center.”
The nurse hooked me up to an IV.
“Want to call your parents?”
I shook my head. “They live too far away.”
“How far?”
“Far.”
While the IV was still going, I scrolled through my phone.
Mom had posted again in the family group chat.
This time it was pictures of Blythe at the student organization fair. She’d joined the debate team.
Mom had also sent a voice message.
I put in my earbuds.
“Blythe, honey, I think debate is wonderful. It’ll help with your speaking skills, and it’ll look great if you apply to grad school someday.”
“Just don’t burn yourself out. Keep up with your classes.”
The message was forty-seven seconds long. Every one of them was about Blythe.
I left the group chat and opened my private messages with Mom.
The last one was from the day I left.
Blythe’s luggage was overweight. We’ll deduct the extra fee from the household budget.
Read. No reply. Then nothing.
Like a rope that had snapped in the middle. Neither end was being held anymore.
After two hours, the IV was done.
I removed the needle myself, signed the paperwork, and walked back to the dorm alone.
Romy looked up the second I came in.
“You look awful. Where’ve you been?”
“The Student Health Center. Heat exhaustion.”
“What? Why didn’t you tell me? I would’ve gone with you.”
She rummaged through her cabinet and handed me a box of electrolyte packets.
“Keep these around. This weather is brutal.”
I held the box for a few seconds.
“Thanks.”
I’d known her for less than two weeks.
She noticed something was wrong before my own family did.
Then came Thanksgiving. The family group chat came alive again.
Mom asked Blythe how she planned to celebrate and whether she wanted her to mail anything.
Blythe said the school was hosting a dinner and sent a picture.
Dad replied: [If you’re craving anything, let me know. I’ll have dinner delivered.]
Mom added: [Poor Blythe, spending Thanksgiving all by herself so far from home.]
I read the message.
It almost made me laugh.
I was spending Thanksgiving alone too. I was even farther from home. But no one thought I was the one to feel sorry for.
Because I never needed worrying about. I was the easy one.
That night, my three roommates all went out for dinner with friends.
They invited me, but I smiled and said, “You guys go ahead.”
I stayed behind and ate a slice of fruitcake. It was sickly sweet.
Halfway through it, my phone rang.
For a second I thought it might be someone from home.
But it was Romy.
“Ellis, are you seriously not coming? This place has the best blueberry muffins. Want me to bring you one?”
“That’d be great. Thanks.”
After we hung up, I stared at Mom’s number in my contacts.
A daughter should call her mother on Thanksgiving. It was the right thing to do.
I called. It rang eight times before she answered. “Hello?”
Her side was loud. People laughing. Glasses clinking.
“Happy Thanksgiving, Mom.”
“Oh. Happy Thanksgiving. You eaten yet?”
“Yeah.”
“Good. Your dad and I are out having dinner. I’ll talk to you later.”
“Okay.”
The call lasted fourteen seconds.
Five of those were just waiting for her to answer. Nine seconds belonged to me.
Happy Thanksgiving, Mom.
Happy Thanksgiving. Have you eaten? Good. Gotta go.
That was everything my mother and I said to each other that holiday.
I set my phone beside my pillow and turned off the light.
Moonlight slipped through the gap in the curtains and fell across the three empty beds opposite mine.
I chose this bed myself. I came to this city by myself.
I had to make the whole journey on my own.
No one was there to send me off, welcome me when I arrived, or cheer me on along the way.
But at least, no one was comparing me anymore.
Romy came back later with a blueberry muffin and a bottle of sparkling honey lemonade.
She set them quietly on my nightstand.
“I saw your lights were out,” she whispered. “You can have them tomorrow. Good night.”
“Good night.”
Before I fell asleep, one thought crossed my mind.
There were still seven days left of break.
I wasn’t going home.