The day my younger sister bought her forty-seventh limited-edition Japanese Lolita dress, I was standing in the drafty corridor outside my dorm, calling our mother to ask for three hundred dollars to buy a new laptop. Through the receiver, my sister’s sharp voice cut through the background noise. “Mom! The tea-party collection just dropped! There are only three left—quick, scan the code and pay before they’re gone!” My mother’s tone instantly shifted, distracted and hurried. “Things are tight this month, Lauren. Just make do with your old computer for now. If Courtney misses this dress, it’s gone forever.” Those frilly, collector-edition dresses averaged around three hundred and fifty dollars each. Forty-seven of them. I didn’t even dare do the math. When I went home for summer break, I discovered my bedroom door had been completely unhinged. In its place hung a cheap, pink lace curtain. Inside, the tiny space was crammed with massive transparent storage tubs filled with Courtney’s crinolines, petticoats, and wigs. My twin bed had been shoved into the far corner, suffocated against the wall. Courtney was standing in front of my full-length mirror, admiring herself in her newest dress. She didn’t even turn around when I walked in. “The curtain makes it easier for me to grab my outfits, Lauren. Besides, you only stay here a few days a year anyway—don’t be so petty.” At dinner, I mentioned that I needed to pay a hundred and fifty dollars for my senior research lab equipment fee next semester. My father took a sip of his soup, his eyes glued to his phone screen. “Didn’t you win a merit scholarship? Figure it out yourself. Stop staring at the family’s wallet.” After dinner, I returned to the doorless room. I squeezed onto the corner of my mattress, surrounded by layers of stiff tulle, and opened my lagging, dying laptop. I clicked on the application form my professor had emailed me earlier. A three-year international fellowship at a research institute four thousand miles away in Scandinavia. Under strict non-disclosure terms, no travel home was permitted mid-term. I filled out every box, attached my transcripts, and hit submit. After all, a room without a door was never meant to hold anyone anyway. … “Mom, the motherboard completely fried. The repair guy said it’s not even worth fixing.” I gripped my phone, standing at the far end of the dormitory hallway where the air was cold and quiet. “My research group needs the midterm simulation models by next week. Could you transfer three hundred dollars so I can buy a basic replacement? I’ll treat it as a loan and pay you back as soon as my part-time check comes in.” A chaotic rustle echoed through the speaker. My mother sounded entirely unbothered, her mind clearly elsewhere. “Three hundred? Why do you need money again? Didn’t you just get paid eighty bucks from your tutoring job last month? Why can’t you learn to manage your spending?” I swallowed hard, trying to force down the bitter acidity rising in my chest. “That eighty dollars? You called me last week saying Dad needed to pay the car insurance, so I transferred every cent to you.” She went silent for two seconds, searching for a quick brush-off. Before she could speak, a shrill, ecstatic squeal burst through the speaker. It was my younger sister, Courtney, her voice so piercing it almost made my ear bleed. “Mom! Hurry! The limited-edition lace drop is live! There are only three spots left! It’s three hundred and fifty bucks—quick, pay for it!” I heard the sound of frantic footsteps on the other end, accompanied by my mother’s doting, indulgent chiding. “Slow down, sweetie, don’t trip. Mom’s paying right now.” Then, turning her attention back to me, her voice grew clipped and impatient. “Lauren, things are tight this month. Just make do with your old one for now. If your sister misses this dress, it’s gone forever. I have to go.” “Click.” The line went dead. I pulled the phone from my ear and stared down at the blacked-out screen of the hand-me-down laptop resting on the windowsill. It gave off a faint, burnt-plastic smell. My uncle had passed it down to me four years ago when it was already on its last legs. For four years, I had used it to write papers, run statistical models, and draft lesson plans for my tutoring gigs. Every time it froze, I held my breath, gently restarting it while praying my data hadn’t vanished into thin air. I had genuinely believed our family was struggling financially. So I worked myself to the bone for scholarships, picked up every side job available, and lived on instant oatmeal and bargain groceries. I felt guilty whenever I spent three dollars on a basket of fresh apples. But the truth was, my mother’s definition of “tight finances” only ever applied to me. Courtney could buy a three-hundred-and-fifty-dollar dress on a whim. Yet my three-hundred-dollar request—a necessity for my senior thesis and graduation—wasn’t even worth a moment’s consideration. My phone buzzed. A message popped up in the lab group chat from my academic advisor. “Lauren, how are the simulations running? Next Monday’s presentation is critical for securing our research funding for the second half of the year.” I stared at the text, my thumb hovering over the glass screen. I didn’t know how to respond. Go to an internet cafe? Public computers didn’t have the processing power or software licenses for our high-level simulation programs. Borrow from a classmate? Everyone was drowning in their own senior projects; their rigs were running simulations twenty-four hours a day. I opened a private chat with my professor, typing out “My laptop blew its motherboard”, only to backspace every single letter. It was too humiliating. I was twenty-two years old, and I couldn’t even afford a three-hundred-dollar secondhand computer. Just then, another message popped up from my advisor. “Lauren, that Scandinavian exchange program I mentioned earlier? Applications opened today.” “It’s based at a partner institute in Northern Europe. They provide top-of-the-line lab equipment and a generous, tax-free living stipend every month.” “However, the terms are strict. It’s a full three-year commitment, and due to non-disclosure and security protocols, you won’t be permitted to return home during the tenure.” “You’re a brilliant researcher, Lauren. You shouldn’t be held back by a lack of resources. Think it over. If you want it, fill out the form and send it back to me tonight.” My heart hammered against my ribs. Three years. Four thousand miles. No coming home. It meant a complete, unburdened break from this family. An exit from Courtney’s suffocating shadow, and an end to the endless, expected sacrifices. I looked out the hallway window at the darkening twilight over the campus quad. For once in my life, I didn’t want to be the sensible, understanding daughter anymore. I typed back: “Thank you, Professor. I’ll send you the completed form tonight.” … The day summer break started, I dragged my battered rolling suitcase back home. But when I unlocked the front door and walked down the hallway toward my bedroom, I froze dead in my tracks. The sturdy wooden door—the one that had a working lock, even if the paint was peeling—was gone. In its place hung a flimsy, pale-pink lace curtain. A stray breeze from the open hallway window rustled the delicate fabric, exposing every inch of the room inside. My bedroom had always been tiny, barely big enough for a twin mattress and a narrow wardrobe. Now, it was packed to the ceiling with massive, clear plastic storage tubs. Inside them were stacked neon-colored wigs, towering petticoats, and metallic props. My bed had been shoved violently into the corner, its mattress partially crushed under unopened cardboard shipping boxes. Courtney stood before my full-length mirror wearing her newly arrived dress. She was adjusting the frilled bodice, and when she saw me, she didn’t even bother to glance up properly. “Oh, you’re back. Pull the zipper up for me, will you? The design is absurd, I can’t reach it.” I stared at the naked metal frame where the door hinges used to be. Empty screw holes gaped back at me. “Where is my door?” My voice trembled. Courtney spoke as if stating the most obvious fact in the world. “Taken down. A curtain makes it so much easier for me to grab my outfits. Besides, you only stay here a few weeks a year anyway—don’t be so stingy.” She spun around, her voluminous bell-shaped skirt puffing out and completely blocking the tiny strip of floor space that remained. “Plus, my dresses are delicate. The wooden door frame keeps catching on the lace. This curtain is way better.” I looked at the elaborate, pristine dress she wore, then at my bed, which was so smothered by her clutter I wouldn’t even be able to roll over in my sleep. “This is my room. What gives you the right to take down my door without asking me?” Courtney snapped, her face twisting into an irritated scowl as she flicked her frilled hem away. “Mom and Dad both said it was fine! Why are you screaming at me? It’s just a door. It’s not like we threw you out.” Hearing the commotion, my mother walked out of the kitchen holding a greasy spatula. Seeing my rigid posture, her face hardened immediately. “Lauren, you just walked through the door and you’re already picking a fight with your sister?” she scolded. “Do you have any idea how expensive Courtney’s dresses are? If you snag one of them, can you afford to replace it?” “Besides, you’re a senior now. Once you graduate, you’ll be living on your own anyway. This room sits empty most of the time—what’s wrong with letting your sister store her things in here?” My father, who was reading the news on his tablet on the living room sofa, chimed in without looking up. “Exactly. Lauren, why have you become so painfully petty? We’re family—does everything have to be counted down to the penny? Making a fuss over a simple door… if the neighbors hear, they’ll laugh at us.” The three of them presented a united front, seamlessly weaving a narrative where I was the selfish, dramatic intruder causing trouble over nothing. I stood in the dim hallway, looking at the soft pink curtain. In their eyes, my privacy, my dignity, and my personal boundaries weren’t worth a single thread on Courtney’s dresses. “Stop wearing that sulky face,” Courtney muttered, rolling her eyes. “Fine, I’ll give you one of my old dresses if you’re that jealous.” The patronizing pity in her tone burned against my cheeks like a slap. I didn’t say another word. Quietly, I dragged my heavy suitcase past the curtain into the doorless room. The sheets smelled faintly of mildew and cardboard dust. I lifted the shipping boxes off my mattress, set them on the floor, and sat on the edge of the bed. Bursts of lighthearted laughter drifted in from the living room. My mother was asking Courtney what she wanted for dinner, while my father suggested a few scenic parks where they could take photos of Courtney in her new outfit over the weekend. And there I sat, tucked into a curtained nook stripped of all privacy, feeling like an unwanted trespasser in the home where I had grown up. I pulled out my phone and opened the official confirmation letter sent by my advisor. Staring at the bold black words—”APPLICATION APPROVED”—a profound sense of relief washed over me. Soon. Just one more month of endurance. Once the new semester started, I would be completely free. At dinner, the table was set with roasted pork ribs and fish filet —Courtney’s absolute favorites. The moment I reached out my fork to pick up a piece of fish, my mother tapped the edge of my bowl with her utensil. “Lauren, let your sister eat first. She spent the entire afternoon standing and modeling those dresses. She’s exhausted.” I pulled my hand back, silently picking at the plain stir-fried greens in front of me instead. My father took a sip of his beer, his gaze settling on me. “Lauren, you’re starting your final year. How’s the job search coming? Don’t spend all your time huddled in that university lab. It doesn’t pay anything real.” I set my bowl down and looked straight at him. “Dad, when the semester starts, I need to pay a hundred and fifty dollars for our research group’s equipment access fee. It dictates whether my advisor writes my recommendation letters.” My father paused, setting his beer down as his brows knit into a heavy scowl. “A hundred and fifty dollars? Why are you asking for money again? Don’t you win top merit scholarships every single year? Figure it out yourself. Stop relying on us for every cent.” My mother chimed in immediately. “Exactly. Courtney needs to enroll in a posture and modeling workshop next month—it costs seven hundred dollars. Where is the family supposed to find spare cash for your extra school fees?” I looked at them, a bone-deep coldness spreading through my veins. “I won a fifteen-hundred-dollar merit grant my freshman year,” I said, my voice measured and deliberate. “A thousand my sophomore year, and two thousand last year.” I looked my mother dead in the eye. “Out of all that money, aside from my basic tuition, I transferred over three thousand dollars directly to you. You told me the family business was struggling and you needed capital to bridge the gap.” My mother’s expression flickered. She looked away, a flash of guilt quickly replaced by defensive anger. “Well… did feeding you and clothing you for eighteen years cost nothing? Now that your wings are grown, you’re going to sit here and audit your own parents?” My father slammed his palm onto the dining table, making the dishes rattle. “Lauren! Is that how you talk to your mother? We’ve fulfilled our duty by putting you through college! Your sister is at a critical age where she needs to build her poise and presence. As her older sister, instead of helping the family, you’re sitting here demanding hand-outs! How can you be so utterly self-centered?” Courtney chewed smugly on a pork rib, her eyes glinting with malicious triumph. “Right? Lauren, aren’t you supposed to be the top student in your class? Can’t the top student even earn a hundred and fifty bucks? My friends told me college tutors make great money. You’re just lazy.” I looked at the three of them sitting around the warm dining light. In that quiet moment, I finally understood. My years of discipline, my quiet obedience, and my endless compromises were nothing more than stupidity in their eyes. Every single dollar I had wired home hadn’t gone into my father’s non-existent business investments, nor had it gone to groceries or utility bills. It had been transformed into the intricate ruffles filling Courtney’s wardrobe, the expensive designer leather shoes on her feet, and the unearned confidence that allowed her to look down on me with contempt. “I understand,” I said quietly. I stood up from the table without another word. I walked back into the room without a door, sat down on the edge of the twin bed, and pulled the pink lace curtain shut behind me. Out in the living room, my father was still grumbling loudly. “Ungrateful brat… all those years of reading books, and she didn’t learn a single shred of family decency.” My mother soothed him softly. “Alright, don’t lower your blood pressure over her. It’s not worth it. Courtney, eat another piece of meat, sweetie.” I pulled up my laggy laptop, logged into the university portal, and clicked on the final confirmation for the international fellowship program. A warning prompt flashed across the screen in dark red: “Once confirmed, this agreement is binding and non-reversible. You will be assigned to the Northern European Research Station for a mandatory term of three years. Please confirm that you have disclosed this commitment to your immediate family.” I stared at the words “disclosed this commitment to your immediate family”, and a soundless, bitter laugh escaped my lips. They didn’t need to know. They had Courtney. That was more than enough for them. I moved the cursor and clicked without a second thought: “Disclosed and Confirmed.” Over the next two weeks, I was impeccably obedient. I never mentioned the lab fee again. I left early every morning and returned late every evening, pretending I was out working a local tutoring job. In reality, I spent my days in the air-conditioned campus laboratory, helping my professor archive data and finalize my departure paperwork. Seeing me leave early and come home exhausted every day, my mother’s attitude softened noticeably. One evening at dinner, she did something unprecedented—she used her serving spoon to scoop a leftover piece of fish tail into my bowl. “Lauren, see? This is how it should be. It’s good for a young woman to taste hardship early. It teaches you how to run a household when you get married.” I looked at the bony, picked-over fish tail swimming in cold oil. I smiled faintly and pushed it beneath a mound of rice. “Yeah. I get it.” The night before my flight, I waited until the house was asleep before I began packing my things. I had so little. Pathetically little. A few faded T-shirts, two pairs of worn jeans, a thick stack of academic textbooks, and every academic award certificate I had earned over the past four years. I stacked them neatly inside my worn suitcase. Looking at the nearly empty closet, I felt a strange urge to laugh. After living in this home for twenty-two years, everything I owned couldn’t even fill a single twenty-four-inch roller bag. Meanwhile, in the room next door, Courtney’s shoeboxes alone were stacked all the way to the crown molding. The next morning, I rolled my suitcase into the entryway. Courtney was sitting on the sofa scrolling through her phone. When she saw me holding a heavy suitcase, she looked slightly surprised. “Lauren? Fall semester doesn’t start yet, does it? Why are you carrying so much stuff?” “My research group has an early orientation project,” I said evenly, slipping into my worn sneakers. “I need to go early.” My mother poked her head out of the kitchen, holding a damp dishcloth. “Stay safe on the bus. Call home when you get to campus. And remember, you’ll need to figure out your own allowance this month—we really don’t have any spare money.” I looked at my mother. I saw the deep crow’s feet carved into the corners of her eyes, and the faded, stiff apron tied around her waist. For a terrifying fraction of a second, something in my chest softened. Then, my eyes drifted past her shoulder toward the corner of the living room, where three massive, freshly delivered parcel boxes were stacked high. It was Courtney’s forty-eighth dress. The faint glimmer of hesitation in my heart vanished instantly, leaving behind a cold, clear stillness. “Okay,” I said. I opened the front door, stepped out into the hallway, and walked away. I didn’t look back once. On the shuttle bus to the international airport, my phone vibrated constantly. In the family group chat, Courtney had dropped a grid of nine heavily edited photos. She was wearing a icy-blue Lolita gown, sitting inside an upscale tea lounge, smiling like an innocent, pampered princess. My mother spammed the chat with voice notes overflowing with affection. “Oh, my sweet girl looks so gorgeous! Just like a painting!” “Every penny for that dress was worth it! Look at her class!” My father followed up by sending a generous digital cash gift: “[For Courtney to buy sweet treats.]” I stared at the flurry of notifications, utterly silent. Ten minutes later, a private text message popped up from my mother. “[Stop making the family worry about you all the time. Look at your sister—she never makes us say a single harsh word.]” Staring at those words on the screen, the sheer absurdity of it hit me like a physical weight. Courtney bought forty-eight designer dresses and drained the family’s savings, yet she was “no trouble at all.” I paid my own way through college on merit grants, yet I was the villain “making the family worry.” The shuttle bus came to a smooth stop outside the international departure terminal. I pulled my suitcase from the lower rack and stepped out into the crisp autumn breeze under a bright sky. I didn’t reply to my mother’s message. I tapped into my settings, selected the family group chat, and hit “Leave Group”. Then, I popped out my SIM card, walked over to the nearest recycling bin inside the terminal, and tossed the tiny plastic chip inside. Four thousand miles. Three years. This time, I was leaving for good.
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