In my life time is honest. I'm lucky to say that, from the moment I wake up to the sound of a rooster, to the moment I lay to rest in the same single bed, I know the bland flavor of a lingering day. I have time to hear my own breathing, the chirping of the neighborhood's swallows, the toot of the mailman before lunch, the sound of the bell at midday sharp... It's ordinary, but it's real.

Except every day feels like the same as before. It's comfortable, calm to an extent, but tedious as it can be. For once in my life I wish I could truly feel like ordinary girl – go out with my friends, drive my own car, have a boyfriend. But all that is is a distant reality for me and, whenever I try to reach it, it swims further away.

The beige dress hangs loose on my shoulders. It always does. Time passes and my chest remains as flat as a wood board. I must certainly get it from my father. I sigh in resignation, pulling the sleeves up my arms once again. I don't know why my mom insists on giving me off-the-shoulder dresses every year for my birthday, but I'm sure today will be no exception.

The vintage duffle bag by my bed holds my entire closet, yet I already feel like my room is different. Everything is changing around a single small change. I can even hear the morning birds' sing and Mr. Clancy's rooster – which I've grown too accustomed to the sound of – again.

I swirl before my reflection, watching as the ruffles at the hem of the dress flounce over each other like the first leaves of Spring. As much as it is used and verging old, I still hold the same passion for it as when I first opened the grey Nordstrom box six birthdays ago.

The thought that I might not spend my next birthday in Savannah looms over me. I've had twenty birthdays where I went out for lunch at the local restaurant with my parents and then watched RomComs the rest of the day until our tummies hurt from too much laughter or my eyes were swollen from unbidden weeping. I know I'll miss these traditions, as much as I want to escape from here; to have real freedom.

But who could blame them? I ask myself, while my fingers work behind my back to secure my hair in my best attempt to a decent-looking braid. Quoting my mom: They just want what's best for me.

I hear the wooden door creak the moment I spot a few loose strands.

"Honey, you look beautiful!" My mom chants, walking in with a shopping bag on hand. Nordstrom, again. "And you will look even more in the new one I got you."

I tame the front strands behind my ears as my lips quirk upwards.

"Thank you."

I watch through the mirror as she lays the grey paper bag at the end of my bed, before walking towards me.

"It's a bit crooked." She points out, grabbing my hair in her hands, and undoes the braid. "When you get married someday you'll have to teach your husband how to braid your hair."

Oh no… She's still sad that I took my uncle's offer and I'm moving out. I laugh to lighten the mood - as much as that would be a funny thing to see. It's still a fresh wound, and the last thing I want is to rub more salt in it.

"Is it that bad?"

She tilts her hair, her adoring, emerald eyes meeting mine. At least this I got from her.

"No, honey… But today is a special day. It's your day. You must look your best. Elastic?"

I hand her the golden ribbon I always tie my hair with, glad she didn't mention it's our last day together for a good while.

"How is dad today?"

She fastens the braid, then pulls at the loops to give it volume and texture.

"He's doing well. In a bit of pain, but mostly excited for our lunch together."

"I'll be down in a moment. Just need to get my shoes."

"Do you need help choosing?"

I shake my head.

"I think I'm gonna wear my favorite sandals."

I turn around, meeting the approving eyes of my mother.

"Okay." She smiles.

I fish the brown strappy sandals from the bottom of my closet and put them on in the blink of an eye.

"Does it look good?" I ask her, standing up to glance at my figure in the mirror. I think I do, despite my bangs looking a bit rebellious.

Warmth pours out of her motherly voice when she replies:

"Perfect."

I smile in return, finger-combing my bangs one last time, before heading downstairs.

My dad lies on the couch re-watching the last Falcons game. It pains me that he won't understand why I won't be here tomorrow to give him his meds or take him out on his daily mid-afternoon walk. He's so used to having me around all the time ever since his Stroke… Despite his condition, I'm sure he's going to feel my absence the most.

I shake my guilt aside. It's time. I've always wanted to go out into the world and experience life like other people my age. I have the right to. If I turn back now, I'll be missing the opportunity of a lifetime and will remain as prisoner to this house as my dad. And I know he'd never wish this misery on anyone.

I grab the Aspirin from the old oak cupboard as I gather the strength to face him.

"Are they winning?" I point to the TV, where his eyes were glued to.

He scoffs sarcastically.

"Not a chance."

I grab the glass of water from the coffee table and he opens his mouth slowly.

"How are you feeling today?" I ask as I place the pill on the tip of his tongue and watch him swallow.

"I'm okay."

I leave the glass by his lips until he has the strength to take a sip.

All these years and he still refuses to let me know when he's in pain. But I've learned to see it under his hooded brown eyes.

"Do you know we're going out for lunch today?"

"Your mother told me."

"Do you know why?"

He frowns ever-so-slightly.

"It's my birthday, dad."

I watch as his mouth falls down, his scowl intensifying.

"How old are you turning?"

"Twenty-one."

"Oh my God… I remembered you were just a little girl yesterday, walking around the living room in your mother's clothes and her high heels nearly fell off your feet." His eyes glance down at my sandals, before meeting my eyes. "Time flies!"

I offer him a kind smile. Every day was the same - I'm just a fading moment in the present. In his memory there's only thirteen-year-old me – a fair-skinned, homebody who spent every second of her days taking care of him. And the worst thing is that I haven't changed a thing.

I check my watch – it's almost midday. Dad always eats around this time, otherwise he gets grumpy like no one's ever been.

"Are you hungry, dad?" I ask, grabbing the aluminum crutches resting by his side.

He nods once again, as he pushes his back off the floral cushion. I help him and his weak leg get on the crutches so he can stand by himself.

"Then let's go. Food's waiting for us."

Huey's is a cozy, Irish green-colored gastropub by the coast in the historic River Street. It offers the best view of the Savannah River and New Orleans cuisine – my all-time favorite.

We sit on one of the square tables at the back as we await the waitress. My mom and dad are on a delighted conversation about Southern gastronomy and, as much as I try to pay attention to agree with one of them, my mind has the upper hand.

I can't stop thinking about this afternoon – my departure. Atlanta is just four hours northwest of Savannah but, somehow, it feels like it's another continent.

"Still, you won't find a Low Country Boil like here." My mom refutes, self-assured. "Southerns have it all: the warmth, the sun and the food."

I'm gonna miss my mom's Low Country Boil… As much as I learned my cooking tricks with her, I've never mastered that dish like she does. My dad throws his hands in the air. That's his favorite thing in the world after me and my mom – he would always say.

"You win."

I'll miss my dad's playfulness… How I used to sit the wooden bench he built for the front porch every evening and listened to his fact-based ghost stories about Savannah. I used to love them, as much as they often gave me nightmares. But he said it was for the best. To make me strong, so there's nothing in the world I will fear.

The waitress approaches us with a friendly smile.

"Hello, Mr and Mrs. Waldorf. Blair, happy birthday!" She offers me the nicest smile.

"Hello, Katie." My mom reciprocates her warmth. "How are you doing?"

Katie was once our neighbor - from what my mom told me. She used to babysit me on occasion when I was still a baby, but then got married and moved to the other side of town with her husband and her two little girls.

"I'm doing great." Her eyes fall back to my father, filling with concern. "What about you guys?"

"We're doing great, too. Blair is moving to Atlanta today. She's in the works to getting a publishing deal and might get her book on the market."

"What?" She gasps. "That's so exciting! Congrats!"

I smile at the reminder more than to be polite. I should be truly excited, not fearful of making the wrong decision. But I can't feel it. There's too many emotions on the surface to pinpoint one that stands out. Perhaps I still haven't wrapped my head around the fact that that's my reality - my dreams are coming true. And maybe I won't believe even when I step foot in the big city.

"Yeah, I'm excited." A wave of pride washes over me, on demand, and I grin. "Thank you."

"You deserve it." Katie adds, before she hands us the menus. "Here you go. I already know your orders, but just in case you've had a change of heart."

My mom glances at me and my dad, and both of us nod.

"I guess not. It's the usual, Katie darling."

"A Muffuletta, a Crawfish Etoufee and the Red Beans and Rice for the birthday girl, correct?"

"Yes. With a side of salad, please."

"And the Chatham." My dad adds. "You have the best artillery punch in the area."

"You're right, Frank!"

"Get us a bottle, please." My mom agrees. "It's a celebration of all sorts, after all."

"Coming right up!"

The lunch flies by, like all last moments do, and, next thing I know I'm at the Greyhound and my dad's crying on my shoulder.

"My little girl… "Come visit us soon." He supplicates, tightening his arms around me as we stand under the façade of the bus station.

My mom is watching me with sparkling emerald eyes, but doesn't say a word.

"I will, dad. I promise."

I can hear my forced breaths as an unforgiving hand begins a slow squeeze around my heart. I feel as though one could see my pain, even from the outside — as if I'm wearing it. Knowing my dad is crying because of me hurts like nothing else. But I choose not to beg him to stop, because I know he'd be ashamed.

The long, white bus turns the lights on, making me flinch at the sudden brightness.

"It's time." I announce, softly breaking his paternal embrace.

I face my dad with a broken smile before I wrap my arms around my mom's slim torso. I allow myself to inhale her calming, motherly scent one last time.

"Text us as soon as you arrive, okay?"

"I will."

"And give your cousin a kiss for us."

"Will do. Goodbye."

With a sinking feeling and my meager bag of worldly possessions clutched under my arm, I hop on the bus and don't look back.