The air in our Chicago home always had a specific weight to it—a mixture of old floor wax, the lingering ghost of my father’s morning coffee, and the unspoken expectations that had been piling up like dust in the corners for decades. That Tuesday, however, the air felt different. It felt thin, like a wire being stretched until it was ready to snap and take someone’s eye out.
I was twenty-three years old, and for the first time in my life, I felt like I was standing on the edge of a map. The “World of Ava” had always been small, bounded by the city limits, the walls of my university library, and the constant, buzzing demands of my family. But inside my bedroom, tucked away in the corner of a house that felt increasingly like a waiting room, my suitcase sat open. It was a cheap, hard-shell carry-on, but to me, it looked like a getaway vehicle.
I had spent the last three hours packing with the precision of a jeweler. Every shirt was rolled tight to save space; every pair of shoes was tucked into a dust bag. I had been saving for this trip to Italy for a year—not just saving money, but saving hope. Every grueling double shift at the coffee shop, every night I spent scrubbing espresso machines until my cuticles bled, every time I said “no” to a new pair of shoes or a night out with friends, I was putting a deposit down on my own soul.
I reached into the side pocket of my backpack and pulled out the navy blue book. My passport.
It felt heavy in my hand, far heavier than a few ounces of paper and ink should be. I flipped it open to the center page. There I was: Ava Monroe, looking slightly startled in a 2×2 photo, but with a look in my eyes that said, I’m going somewhere. I ran my thumb over the gold-foiled crest on the cover. To most people, it’s a travel document. To me, it was a permission slip to exist outside of the shadow of the Monroe family.
I stepped out of my room and into the hallway, my thumb still tracing the edge of the pages. I was lost in a vivid, high-definition daydream. I could almost feel the humid, salty air of Venice sticking to my skin. I could hear the rhythmic slap-slap of the canal water against the stone stairs. I was thinking about the first scoop of gelato I’d buy in Rome—pistachio, probably—and how the sun would feel on my face when I wasn’t looking over my shoulder to see if someone needed me to change a diaper or fix a snack.
The hallway was narrow, a bottleneck that connected the bedrooms to the rest of the house. It was a space I usually navigated with my head down, trying to be invisible. But today, I was walking with my head up. I was flipping the passport open and closed, a nervous, rhythmic habit. Click-shuck. Click-shuck. Then, the bathroom door creaked open.
My sister, Megan, stepped out. She didn’t just walk into the hall; she occupied it. Megan has always had a way of taking up more space than she actually needs. She was six years older than me, and she carried those six years like a rank in the military. She stood there, her damp hair clinging to her shoulders, her eyes immediately locking onto the blue book in my hand.
“Still playing traveler?” she asked. Her voice wasn’t loud, but it had that serrated edge she used when she wanted to remind me that she was the adult and I was the “helper.”
“I’m not playing, Meg,” I said, trying to sidestep her. “I leave in less than twenty-four hours.”
She didn’t move. She shifted her weight, physically blocking my path to the kitchen. “You’ve got a lot of nerve, you know that? Standing there acting like you’re about to go on some grand adventure while I’m drowning over here. Ethan has that conference next week. Mom’s on nights. Who do you think is going to take Olly?”
“We’ve talked about this, Megan,” I said, my voice remarkably steady despite the drumming of my heart. “I told you three months ago. I told you when I booked the flight. I told you when I graduated. You had plenty of time to find a sitter or ask Ethan’s mom.”
“Family shouldn’t have to ‘find a sitter’ when they have a sister living under the same roof for free,” she snapped. She took a step closer. The hallway felt smaller. The air felt hotter. Continue…