Chương 2 - The University Had Been Looking for Me
For several seconds, I thought I had misunderstood her.
“Someone did what?”
The consular officer, whose badge read MS. COLLINS, kept her voice calm.
“Your university received multiple emails requesting that your enrollment be withdrawn.”
I stared at her.
“I never withdrew.”
“I understand.”
“Who sent them?”
“We don’t know yet.”
I already knew.
Or at least I thought I did.
Ashley.
Mom.
Dad.
One of them.
Maybe all three.
Ms. Collins asked whether I had access to my university email account.
I opened my laptop.
My password didn’t work.
I tried again.
Incorrect password.
My skin prickled.
“I didn’t change it.”
“Try password recovery.”
I did.
The recovery email was mine.
But the recovery phone number ended in digits I didn’t recognize.
My stomach dropped.
Someone hadn’t just hidden my passport.
Someone had accessed my university account.
Ms. Collins asked me to call the university while sitting there.
After fifteen minutes on hold, a woman named Dr. Hannah Price answered.
The moment I said my name, her voice changed.
“Emily?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, thank God.”
Those three words nearly made me cry again.
Dr. Price explained that two days before my scheduled arrival, the university received an email from my account stating that I had experienced a “family emergency” and wished to permanently withdraw.
But something about the email had seemed strange.
“My communications with you over the last year were extremely detailed,” she said. “The withdrawal email didn’t sound like you.”
“What did it say?”
She hesitated.
“It said you had reconsidered because international study was irresponsible and that your family needed you at home.”
My hand tightened around the phone.
That sentence belonged to my mother.
I had heard versions of it for months.
Dr. Price continued.
“We replied asking you to confirm. Then we received another message.”
“What did that one say?”
“That you were certain.”
I closed my eyes.
“And then?”
“Then your scholarship coordinator became concerned because you had already completed several mandatory pre-arrival requirements. We tried calling your number.”
“My phone never rang.”
“The contact number on your student portal had been changed.”
I looked at Ms. Collins.
She was taking notes.
Dr. Price continued.
“We eventually contacted the emergency number you originally provided in your scholarship application.”
I froze.
“What emergency number?”
“Your former professor. Dr. Monroe.”
Of course.
Professor Linda Monroe had supervised my senior research project and written one of my recommendation letters.
She had been the first adult outside my family who ever told me that wanting more from life wasn’t selfish.
“What did she say?”
“That withdrawing twenty-four hours before departure made absolutely no sense.”
I covered my mouth.
For three days, I had believed I had lost everything.
Meanwhile, people thousands of miles away had been fighting to protect a future my own family was trying to erase.
Dr. Price’s next words made my knees weak.
“We have not canceled your enrollment.”
I stared at the embassy wall.
“What?”
“We placed it on administrative hold.”
My eyes filled.
“Does that mean…”
“It means if you can arrive within the next several days, we can still admit you.”
I stopped breathing.
“How many days?”
“Seventy-two hours would be ideal.”
Three days.
I had three days to recover a passport, buy another flight, secure my accounts, and somehow leave a house where three people had already conspired to stop me once.
“Emily,” Dr. Price said gently, “do you still want to come?”
I almost laughed.
“Yes.”
There was no hesitation.
“Yes. More than anything.”
“Then come.”
After the call ended, Ms. Collins helped me understand my options.
Because my passport had been deliberately taken and was inaccessible, I could file a report and begin an emergency replacement process.
It wasn’t guaranteed.
It wasn’t simple.
But it was possible.
She gave me forms.
Instructions.
Names.
Numbers.
For the first time in three days, the future existed again.
I walked outside holding the folder against my chest.
My phone immediately began vibrating.
MOM.
I ignored it.
Then DAD.
Ignored.
Then ASHLEY.
Ignored.
A text appeared.
WHERE ARE YOU?
Another.
MOM IS FREAKING OUT.
Then:
YOU BETTER NOT BE DOING SOMETHING STUPID.
I almost smiled.
For the first time in my life, I didn’t explain myself.
I went directly to the police station and filed a report.
Then I visited my bank.
I changed every password.
Added two-factor authentication.
Removed the household landline from my account recovery settings.
Then I called my phone company and added a PIN.
By noon, I realized how many pieces of my life my family knew enough about to interfere with.
My childhood pet’s name.
My first school.
My mother’s maiden name.
My birthday.
My email habits.
Everything.
I felt exposed.
At 1:17 p.m., Dr. Monroe called.
“Emily?”
Her voice cracked.
I started crying the moment I heard it.
“I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“For missing the flight. For all of this.”
“No.”
Her voice became firm.
“You have nothing to apologize for.”
That sentence was so unfamiliar that I went silent.
She asked where I was.
I told her.
“Do you have somewhere safe to stay tonight?”
I hadn’t even considered it.
“I can go home.”
“Do you think your documents will remain safe there?”
I looked down at my black folder.
No.
“Probably not.”
“Then don’t go home.”
She arranged for me to stay with her niece, Rachel, who lived thirty minutes from the city.
I protested.
She ignored me.
At 3:40 p.m., while sitting inside Rachel’s small apartment, my mother finally left a voicemail.
Her voice was furious.
“Emily, whatever little stunt you’re pulling, come home. Your father is extremely upset. Ashley had to order dinner because you disappeared without saying anything. This behavior is unacceptable.”
I listened twice.
Not once did she ask whether I was safe.
Not once did she apologize.
Not once did she mention my passport.
She was angry because Ashley had to order dinner.
Rachel watched my expression.
“You okay?”
I laughed.
It sounded strange.
“No.”
Then, after a moment:
“But I think I will be.”
That evening, the police called Dad.
I know because fourteen minutes later, he sent me a message.
YOU HAVE GONE TOO FAR.
I looked at it for a long time.
Then another message appeared.
YOUR PASSPORT IS SAFE. WE WERE PROTECTING YOU FROM MAKING A MISTAKE.
I screenshotted both messages.
The police now had something they hadn’t had that morning.
An admission.
At 8:06 p.m., another message appeared.
This one from Ashley.
Delete the police report. Dad says he’ll give it back if you stop embarrassing everyone.
I screenshotted that too.
Five minutes later, Ashley unsent it.
But it was already saved.
My hands were shaking.
Not from fear.
From realization.
They still thought this was about control.
They still believed they could negotiate my freedom back to me.
At 9:22 p.m., a detective called.
“Emily, your father has agreed to surrender the passport.”
I stood up.
“When?”
“Tomorrow morning.”
Relief rushed through me.
Then the detective added something.
“There’s another issue.”
My stomach tightened.
“What issue?”
“Your father says the passport in his desk is not the only travel document belonging to you that he has.”
I went still.
“What does that mean?”
“He says there is another passport.”
I laughed nervously.
“That’s impossible.”
The detective didn’t answer immediately.
Then he said:
May you like
“According to your father, you’ve had two passports for years.”
And suddenly, a memory from when I was twelve came rushing back—my mother standing at an airport counter, whispering fiercely to my father about a document I had never been allowed to see.
