CHAPTER ONE
Daria
ST. VINCENT
I had wanted London forever. Nobody mentioned the leaving part.
I didn’t sleep that night. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the papers Mum had spread across the kitchen table after dinner: St. Augustine’s crest, my name, and a list of things the educational trust was covering that still looked fake no matter how many times I read it. Tuition. Accommodation. Flights. Living expenses. Music costs. All of it.
I sat cross-legged on my bed with the documents balanced over my knees and read the first page again, though I could have recited most of it by then. I had earned my place at St. Augustine’s months ago. The acceptance letter was still pinned crookedly above my desk because I’d been too excited to hang it properly. Getting in had been the dream. Paying for it had been the problem. And now, somehow, it wasn’t.
That should have made me calmer. Instead, the standing fan beside my dresser pushed warm air around the room, rattling every few seconds like it had opinions. My brain circled the same three things: England. London. Three weeks. I let the papers slide onto the bed and looked around my room.
The walls were pale yellow because I’d chosen the colour when I was twelve and rejected every suggestion Mum had made since. Certificates leaned crookedly on one shelf. Old recital programs were tucked into the corner of my mirror. My violin case rested against the chair, two stickers peeling from one side.
This room had seen me cry over maths, practise until my fingers hurt, swear I was never speaking to three different girls again, then invite all three over the following weekend. In three weeks, it would still be here. London had always been the exciting part. Apparently, leaving had been hiding in the fine print.
I reached beneath my bed and pulled out my oldest journal. It hadn’t closed properly in years. Magazine cut-outs, ticket stubs, photographs and every random thing thirteen-year-old me had decided mattered bulged from between the pages. England appeared an embarrassing number of times: red buses, rainy streets, old stone buildings, a castle I couldn’t remember the name of, and an entire page dedicated to British autumn despite the fact I’d never experienced a season that required more than one layer of clothing.
Then I found the page with SOMEDAY written across the top in purple marker.
“Well,” I murmured, rubbing my thumb over the faded ink. “That escalated.”
My smile lasted all of two seconds. Someday had been easy when it was a picture in a notebook. It hadn’t meant leaving Mum behind. I closed the journal and stretched across the bed, one arm over my eyes. I was excited enough to feel sick, and I was choosing to interpret that as a good sign.
❦
The house was already warm when I found Mum’s note on the kitchen counter. She had left for the clinic before I woke, but toast and sliced mango waited beside the note.
Eat before you start reorganizing your entire life.
Love, Mum.
I snorted, folded the note into my palm and stole a piece of mango. Our house was a low, one-storey concrete bungalow painted sun-faded turquoise with white trim. The colour had softened over the years but was still bright enough that giving directions rarely required a house number. The front windows were open, sunlight warmed the patterned tiles beneath my bare feet, and whatever breeze had bothered showing up moved lazily through the curtains.
Outside, somebody’s radio was playing loudly enough for three houses to enjoy it. A minibus passed at the end of the road with music thumping through its open windows. Somewhere nearby, a dog barked to announce a visitor. I carried my plate onto the veranda and found Mrs. Providence next door pinning clothes to her line. The second she saw me, she lifted one hand.
“London girl!”
I nearly choked on my toast. “My mother told you.”
“Your mother told everybody.” Mrs. Providence clipped a shirt to the line with unnecessary satisfaction.
“Amazing. Love that for me.”
She laughed and reached for another clothespin. “You should be proud.”
“I am.” I leaned against the veranda post, turning the crust of my toast between my fingers. Excitement and homesickness had moved in together before I’d even gone anywhere.
Mrs. Providence studied me for half a second, then pointed the clothespin in my direction. “You call your mother.”
“I haven’t even left yet.”
“Practise.”
That got a laugh out of me. I saluted her with the toast and went back inside. The kitchen table was still buried under paperwork. I gathered the pages into a pile before Mum came home and accused me of staging an administrative takeover. My passport sat on top. Underneath it was a photocopy of my birth certificate. I only noticed the blank line because I’d noticed it so many times before. Mother: Sasha Brooks. Father: Nothing. My hand stilled on the paper.
That empty space had bothered me when I was younger because Mum had always given me a story about the man who should have been named there: a light-skinned Black fisherman from St. Vincent, his hands rough from rope, his laugh too loud for church. He had died in an accident at sea before I was born, and Mum said I had inherited his eyes. I could picture him because I had spent years trying, not because I had ever seen a photograph. Whenever I asked why his name was missing from the certificate, Mum’s answers became vague. Eventually, I stopped asking. I slid the birth certificate back into the folder and squared the edges against the table. London was mine. I wasn’t giving a man I’d never known space in it before I’d even packed a suitcase. My phone buzzed beside the fruit bowl before I could sit with the thought any longer.
Ms. Baptiste: Still coming at ten or have you become too international for the rest of us?
Me: Please. I haven’t even bought a coat yet.
Her reply came almost immediately.
Ms. Baptiste: Bring the Bach. And your attitude.
Me: One of those is easier to carry.
❦
Ms. Baptiste had taught me violin since I was nine and had never once pretended I sounded better than I did. That was probably why I trusted her. Her front room had been a music space for as long as I could remember. Two stands sat near the window. Sheet music covered half a bookcase. A ceiling fan spun lazily overhead while I worked through the same section for the fourth time. I finished the phrase, lowered my bow and looked at her over the violin. “Better?”
Ms. Baptiste adjusted her glasses, then tapped the edge of the score with her pencil. “Better. Still rushing.”
“You could have stopped after the first word.”
“And deprive you of growth?” She settled back in her chair, far too pleased with herself.
I shifted the violin against my shoulder. “I liked you more when I was younger.”
“No, you didn’t.”
Unfortunately, true. I raised the bow again, but she said my name before I could start.
“Daria.”
The change in her tone made me lower the instrument. Ms. Baptiste set the pencil across her lap and waited until I was actually looking at her.
“When you get there, you’re going to meet people who’ve had private tutors since they were five. Some of them will have instruments that cost more than this house.”
I rested the bow across my knees. “Very comforting.”
“I’m not finished.”
“That sentence has never ended well for me.”
Her mouth twitched, but she didn’t let me distract her. “Don’t walk into those rooms and decide expensive means better.”
I glanced down at the worn frog of my bow. “What if they actually are better?”
“Then you learn from them.”
I rolled the bow gently between my fingers. “And if I’m the worst one there?”
Ms. Baptiste leaned forward, forearms braced on her thighs. “Then congratulations. You’ve found a room where you can improve.”
I made a face. “You and Mum have been talking.”
“Your mother and I have been talking since before you were born. Who do you think taught her to play the piano?” She picked up her pencil again and pointed it at the stand. “You should be more worried about what we’ve discussed.”
“That feels threatening.”
“Play the Bach.”
So I did. This time, I stopped thinking about London. About money. About students with better instruments and better training and whether I would embarrass myself within the first forty-eight hours. For four minutes, there was only the violin beneath my chin and the familiar resistance of the strings under my fingers. For four minutes, leaving felt less terrifying.
❦
I covered the kitchen table with lists until there was barely room for Mum’s dinner plate. Packing. Documents. Things to buy. Things to do before leaving. And a separate category for things Mum insisted I needed that I was convinced no eighteen-year-old in Britain had ever willingly owned. She came through the front door and stopped with one nursing shoe still on.
“What happened to my table?”
“I’m preparing.” I uncapped a highlighter and drew a line through another item as if the evidence supported my case.
Mum dropped her bag onto a chair and stared at the colour-coded pages. “You’re leaving in three weeks.”
“Exactly. Basically tomorrow.”
“Daria.”
“I don’t control time.”
She laughed under her breath, kicked off her other shoe and slid into the chair beside me. “What are we panicking about first?”
I pushed the page labelled CLOTHING: SURVIVAL towards her. “A coat. A serious one. Long, warm, possibly dramatic.”
“You’re going to London, not the Arctic.” Mum pulled the list closer and scanned it as though I’d submitted it for professional review.
“That sounds exactly like something someone from a tropical island says before freezing to death.” I uncapped my pen and added gloves beneath the scarf I’d already written down twice.
She caught the movement. “How cold do you think England is?”
“I saw a video where a girl said the damp gets into your bones.”
Mum folded the list in half. “You also spent forty minutes watching a woman rank London coffee shops.”
“Cultural research.”
Her mouth twitched despite herself. “You’re exhausting.”
“And yet beloved.”
“Debatable.”
I was reaching for the university folder when she beat me to it. Mum opened it, flipping past the accommodation letter and orientation information until the trust paperwork appeared beneath her hand. The smile left her face. Only for a second. But I saw it. I set the highlighter down. “You’re doing the weird thing again.”
Mum looked up from the folder. I tapped the funding letter before she could ask what I meant.
“That face happens every time we talk about the money.”
She smoothed the page flat even though it wasn’t creased. “What are you talking about?”
“It’s like you remember something bad.”
For a beat, the only sound in the kitchen was the rain beginning softly against the roof. Mum closed the folder with more care than it required and moved it aside.
“I’m going to miss you.”
Every follow-up question I had vanished.
“Oh.”
She rubbed both hands over her face, suddenly looking more tired than she had when she’d walked in. “That sounded more dramatic than I meant it to.”
“No, it’s fine. I love emotional ambushes.”
Her mouth moved, but neither of us quite laughed. I traced the edge of the packing list with one finger. “I’m going to miss you too.” The rain strengthened, tapping against the roof and broad leaves outside. For a moment we listened to it.
“It still doesn’t feel real,” I admitted.
Mum leaned back in her chair. “It will.”
“Not helpful.”
“Would you prefer I lie?”
“A little, yeah.”
She reached across the table and took my hand. Her palm was warm, the skin slightly rough from constant washing at the clinic.
“When you get there, don’t shrink yourself.”
I looked up. Mum’s thumb moved once across my knuckles. “You earned your place. Your marks got you in. Your audition got you in. The money just means you can go.”
“I know.”
Her brows lifted. “Do you?”
I opened my mouth, then looked away towards the dark window. Mum squeezed my fingers. “Somebody there will have more money than you. A lot of people probably will. Some will know one another already. Some will walk into a room like their family owns the building.”
“That sounds unbearable.”
“It probably will be.” She almost smiled, but her gaze stayed steady. “Don’t let any of it convince you they deserve to be there more than you do. And don’t let anyone make you feel grateful just for being allowed into the room. You belong where you earned the right to stand.”
For once, I didn’t make a joke. I let the words settle between us until the tightness in my throat eased enough to breathe around it. Then Mum picked up my coat list and squinted at it. “Now. How dramatic are we talking?”
Relief made me laugh. “An unreasonable amount.”
“Not on our budget.”
❦
The next three weeks disappeared. We bought a navy wool coat, waterproof boots, two jumpers, an unreasonable number of socks and a suitcase that seemed perfectly adequate until I tried putting my life inside it. Mum also made me a scarf. Made was generous. For two weeks, dark red wool followed her around the house while she fought with it after work, during television, on the veranda and once while waiting for rice to finish cooking. One evening, I held up the length trailing over her lap. “It’s getting longer than I am.”
Without looking up from the stitch she’d just corrected, Mum said, “Then you’ll be warm.”
“I’m five-four.”
“And dramatic.”
I complained about the scarf almost every day. I loved it so much it hurt. As the flight got closer, Mum started watching me when she thought I wasn’t paying attention. I’d be folding clothes and look up to find her standing in the hallway. Or I’d be talking too fast about residence halls and course registration and realize she wasn’t following the details anymore. She was just looking at me. I pretended not to notice because I didn’t know what to do with that kind of love when it looked scared.
The night before I left, rain drummed against the roof for hours. My suitcase stood beside the front door with my violin. My bedroom had never been so clean. I lay awake staring at the ceiling, thinking that by this time tomorrow I would be somewhere over the Atlantic. I had wanted this for years. Suddenly, I wanted one more week.
❦
Morning showed up anyway. The airport was loud before we made it properly through the doors. Families crowded around luggage trolleys. Children cried. Someone argued with an airline employee. An announcement crackled overhead that neither Mum nor I understood. Mum had my passport. I had already asked for it back twice.
“You lose things when you’re nervous,” she said, tucking it deeper into her handbag.
I tightened my grip on the suitcase handle. “I’ve never lost a passport.”
“You’ve never owned a passport before.”
“That is an unfair use of facts.”
She kept it. Her lipstick was perfect; her eyes weren’t. I pretended not to notice as she counted essentials off on her fingers: phone, charger, documents.
“All in my bag.” I patted the front pocket of my backpack.
“Wallet?”
“Mum.”
She gave me the look that had survived every argument I’d attempted since childhood.
“Yes, I have my wallet.”
Her gaze dropped to the black case beside my suitcase. “Violin?”
I followed it. “It would be impressive if I lost that while standing next to it.”
She ignored me and reached into her handbag. “Here.” An envelope landed in my hand. I opened it and frowned. Cash sat on top of a bank card with my name on it.
“Mum, no.”
She zipped the handbag closed. “Daria.”
“You already bought half the things in my suitcase.”
“You’re moving across an ocean.”
“My living expenses are covered.”
Mum adjusted the strap on my backpack, fussing with it until it sat properly on my shoulder. “And what if your flight is delayed? What if something happens? What if you see something ridiculous you want and decide, for once, not to be sensible?”
I stared at her. “That last one feels targeted.”
“I’m encouraging growth.”
I looked down at the cash again. “Can you afford this?” Her hand stilled on the strap. Just for a moment.
“It’s handled.”
“Mum—”
She pressed the envelope against my chest and closed my fingers around it. “Emergencies first. Bad decisions second.”
“You’re approving bad decisions now?”
“Small ones.”
“Who are you?”
“Your mother, unfortunately.”
The laugh that came out of me landed dangerously close to a sob. Mum’s face changed immediately. “Hey.”
“I’m fine.”
“You are very bad at lying.”
“Genetic.”
A small smile appeared. Then she touched my cheek, and the joking fell away.
“Listen to me.”
I did.
“You don’t have to prove yourself every second you’re there. Make friends. Go places. Have fun.” Her thumb moved once beneath my eye. “Do something stupid once in a while.”
“How stupid?”
“Not hospital stupid.”
“That’s a very low bar.”
“I’m serious.” She tucked one loose curl behind my ear, the same way she had when I was little. “Build a life that feels like yours.”
The airport seemed louder around us. I swallowed. “What if I hate it?”
“Then you call me.”
“What if I fail?” The question escaped before I could soften it into a joke. I had spent months proving I belonged at St. Augustine’s, and suddenly all I could picture was calling home to say they had been wrong about me.
Mum lowered the passport she had been guarding like a national treasure. “Then you fail at something, Daria. You will be disappointed, and you will make another plan. One mistake does not get to decide the rest of your life.”
I tried to smile. “You make that sound suspiciously easy.”
“I remember every night you came home crying because you thought you would never master a piece. I remember the next mornings too. You got up and played it again.” She adjusted the strap of my backpack, although it had not moved. “I’m not promising easy. I’m promising you know how to begin again.”
The boarding announcement crackled overhead. Mum’s hand stopped on my shoulder, and I watched her composure falter for the first time that morning. It frightened me more than the flight.
“I changed my mind,” I whispered.
Her laugh broke in the middle. “For a minute, so have I.” She drew me close, her cheek warm against mine. “But you wanted this before either of us knew how to pay for it. I cannot be the person who asks you to stay because I’m going to miss you.”
I wrapped both arms around her. The clever goodbye I had planned vanished. I cried into her shoulder like I was nine again, while people with suitcases found their way around us.
“I don’t know if I can do this without you.”
“You will never have to do it without me.” Her hand moved slowly up and down my back. “There is a telephone. There are flights. There is a room waiting here if you decide to come home. But first, give yourself the chance to go.”
I drew back, breathing unevenly. The red scarf she had made was crooked where I had crushed it between us. She straightened it with the same concentration she used on everything she could fix.
Mum nodded, a little teary too, and I reached for the part of our goodbye I knew how to manage.
I wiped my face with the heel of my hand. “You better not turn my room into an office.”
“I was thinking gym.”
“Mum.”
She laughed and kissed my forehead. “I love you.”
“I love you too.”
“Call when you land.”
“I will.”
“And when you get to the university.”
“I know.”
She lifted one finger before I could move away. “And if anything feels wrong—”
I caught her hand and squeezed it. “I know.” Her expression said she didn’t believe me.
“I know,” I repeated, softer this time.
I took my passport before she could find another reason to keep it and pulled my suitcase towards security. Halfway there, I looked back. Mum was still where I’d left her, one hand covering her mouth. When she saw me, she lowered it and waved. I waved back. Then I turned around before I did something deeply embarrassing, like abandon my degree and sprint back to her.
❦
On the plane, everything felt fake. My seat. The tiny cup of water. The safety card. The little blanket folded in plastic. Even my passport looked like it belonged to somebody who knew what she was doing. I kept my violin close and stared through the window as the plane moved towards the runway. My stomach dropped before we even left the ground. The engines grew louder. The runway blurred. And then St. Vincent fell away beneath us. I pressed my forehead to the window.
Green hills. Bright roofs. Roads curling towards the coast. The sea was so blue it made every photograph I’d ever taken look fake. Somewhere down there was our turquoise house with the white trim. The veranda. My room. Mrs. Providence’s washing line. Ms. Baptiste’s music stand. Mum. Everything became smaller until I couldn’t pick out any of it anymore. My chest hurt in a way excitement had not prepared me for. I had spent years dreaming about leaving. Nobody had warned me that getting what you wanted could feel this much like grief.
