Sable Monroe

 

Leaving Glen Oaks hurt.

 

I’m not even going to pretend it didn’t.

 

That was the first place in America where I felt like we had arrived. It was clean, stable, and for once, we didn’t have to fix anything just to make it livable. You could just bring your furniture in and exist.

 

So when we had to leave, I felt it.

 

But at the same time, I was relieved that we found something.

 

Because finding an apartment back then wasn’t like now. There was no scrolling online listings. You had to call numbers, chase ads, drive around neighborhoods, and hope somebody picked up the phone and said yes.

 

And if you looked a certain way, sometimes that “yes” never came.

 

So when that Richmond Hill apartment came through, I knew exactly what it was.

 

Luck.

 

Or maybe desperation on both sides.

 

The landlord didn’t check much. She just wanted first and last month’s rent in cash, and that was enough.

 

And just like that, we had a place.

 

Of course, there was a catch.

 

There always was.

 

My mother and stepfather got back together again so we could afford it.

 

That part didn’t feel like stability.

 

That felt like history repeating itself.

 

The apartment itself?

 

It was actually nice.

 

Bigger than Glen Oaks, more space, and my mother did what she always does. She made it look good. She knows how to turn a place into something presentable, something that looks put together from the outside.

 

And from the outside, it probably looked like we were doing fine.

 

But I already knew what was coming.

 

My commute.

 

That was the first thing I thought about.

 

Not the space. Not the neighborhood.

 

Logistics.

 

How am I getting to work?

 

Who am I asking for rides?

 

What if I can’t get one?

 

What if I have to walk?

 

What time do the buses stop?

 

Everything became harder.

 

School plus work plus commuting wasn’t just tiring. It was complicated.

 

Every day had to be calculated.

 

Every ride had to be figured out.

 

And I already knew from experience that “figuring it out” often came at a cost.

 

But even in all of that, I had one clear thought in my head:

 

I’m 17 now.

 

One more year.

 

This isn’t forever.

 

That thought carried me.

 

Because I wasn’t trying to build a long-term plan inside that house.

 

I was trying to get out of it.

 

My mother wanted something different.

 

She wanted me to look at colleges. She wanted me to plan for school, for a future that included staying home and continuing my education.

 

She told me I could live at home and go to college.

 

But all I heard was:

 

Stay.

 

Stay in the same environment.

 

Stay in the same stress.

 

Stay longer.

 

I couldn’t do it.

 

I didn’t even try.

 

I didn’t take the SATs.

 

I didn’t apply to colleges.

 

I didn’t fill out anything.

 

And realistically, I didn’t even have the paperwork to make that process smooth anyway.

 

But even if I did…

 

I already knew my answer.

 

I wasn’t choosing between college and no college.

 

I was choosing between:

 

Staying

 

or

 

Leaving

 

And I chose leaving.

 

I remember telling my mother that I was going to move out.

 

She didn’t believe me.

 

Maybe she thought I was just talking.

 

Maybe she thought I would change my mind.

 

But in my head, it was already decided.

 

I wasn’t staying any longer than I had to.

 

Richmond Hill wasn’t just another place we lived.

 

It was the place where I made up my mind.

 

Not about school.

 

Not about work.

 

But about my life.

 

I was going to finish high school.

 

I was going to turn 18.

 

And then I was going to go.

 

No matter what.