Chapter 3 - THE ESCAPE AND THE COLD WAR
At twenty, I earned a full-tuition scholarship for digital media at a state university two hours away from the suffocating white siding of Bennett Street. My mother had already picked out a small, ultra-conservative religious college called Evermore—the exact same place Jessica had attended before dropping out to marry a man with porcelain veneers, a trust fund, and the personality of a hotel lobby painting. At Sunday dinner, while cutting into a roast chicken that tasted like ash, my mother cleared her throat and smiled her practiced, social-register smile. "We’ve decided that Evermore is our family legacy, Caitlyn. Your enrollment deposit is already paid, and the dean is a dear friend of mine from the garden club." I looked across the table, picked up my fork, and said, "It sounds like a minimum-security prison with tuition."
Jessica looked up from her salad, her fork halfway to her mouth in utter disbelief. "Oh my God, listen to her. One lucky scholarship and suddenly she thinks she’s Ruth Bader Ginsburg." I slid my official acceptance letter from the state university across the polished mahogany table, right over the gravy boat. "I’m going to State," I said, my voice steady, devoid of the trembling fear that used to plague my chest. My mother’s face didn't shatter; it hardened. A single muscle jumped violently near her left jawline, the only crack in her immaculate porcelain veneer. "No," she said softly, her voice dropping an octave into that dangerous teacher register. "That wasn't a question, Mother." She carefully folded her linen napkin, placed it beside her plate, and stared at me with eyes as cold as winter rain. "If you walk out that front door this fall, don't ever expect to come back. You will be dead to this family."
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I looked around the dining room—at the staged family photos hanging in matching silver frames, the spotless china cabinet filled with plates we were never allowed to touch, and Jessica smirking like she had front-row tickets to my public execution. "Great," I said, standing up from my chair and pushing it back. "One less key to carry." I packed my entire life into two suitcases that very night, ignoring the heavy footsteps pacing outside my bedroom door. Jessica stood in my doorway with her arms crossed over her chest, chewing gum with aggressive boredom. "You’ll be crawling back in a month when you realize the real world doesn't care about your little drawings," she sneered. "Maybe," I replied, zipping my suitcase with a sharp zip. "But at least I’ll experience indoor plumbing without a surveillance camera pointed at the hallway." She rolled her eyes and walked away.
College was not glamorous. My first apartment off-campus had thin, paper-mache walls, a crooked gas stove that smelled like sulfur every time I tried to bake bread, and a bathroom exhaust fan that sounded like a helicopter trying to land on a tin roof. But it had a lock. A heavy, deadbolt lock on the inside. Every single night for the first six months, I would stand in the dark hallway of that tiny apartment and turn that lock twice just to hear the solid, reassuring click. I painted one living room wall a bright, rebellious shade of forest green. I ate cereal for dinner three nights a week. I didn't call home, and nobody called me. For three years, I built a quiet, safe existence. I made real friends—people who laughed without malice and didn't analyze your posture when you walked into a room. I graduated with honors, landed a junior graphic design position at a boutique marketing firm in Columbus, and started dating a kind, soft-spoken graphic artist named Marcus who actually listened when I spoke. I thought I had buried Caitlyn Monroe forever. I was wrong. The past doesn't stay in the grave just because you shovel dirt over it; sometimes, it waits for an invitation.
