On My 18th Birthday, My Parents Drove Me to the Ai…

My name printed in black letters. Adella Smith. Destination: a small regional airport in Vermont.

Beneath that, a connecting shuttle reference to a town I had never heard of. Mil Haven. I stared at it, waiting for the rest.

Waiting for a brochure, a card, an explanation. Waiting for the moment when someone laughed and said I should see my face. No one laughed.

My father spoke first. “This is your gift,” he said. His voice was flat.

Rehearsed. Almost bored. Then he added, “Don’t come back.”

For a few seconds, I did not understand language.

I knew the meanings of the words individually. Gift. Don’t.

Come. Back. But together they formed something my mind refused to accept.

My eyes moved to my mother. Her head remained turned toward the windshield. I could see only her profile, the straight line of her nose, the tense set of her jaw.