The Flowers That Grow in Paris

There’s nothing to go back to. I keep telling myself this as I sit on the plane waiting for takeoff. The plane is filled with excited voices, but they are drowned out by my parents screaming across the kitchen table in my head. I should be excited too and part of me is, but I can’t help but think what my life would be like if I stayed. Except if I would have stayed nothing would have changed. My parents would argue about what shade of blue the bedroom walls were painted or who left the dirty dishes in the sink. All they do is fight anymore and tell me they are “working through it.” I wish they would have just gotten a divorce.

“You’re lucky to have gotten the window seat,” a middle-aged woman says softly.

I smile at her and return to my thoughts as she sits down beside me.

I left the house this morning without waking my parents up. They have no clue that I bought a one-way plane ticket to Paris and I don’t plan to tell them either. Or at least until I get there. I know if I told them they would have tried to talk me out of going or tell me that I am acting on my emotions. But I’m leaving so that I can grow. Grow like the flowers that make Paris so beautiful.

I take one last look out the window and my reflection stares back at me. I see my curly brown hair and light blue eyes that have been dulled by dark circles over the years. My subconscious tells me to look for him in every area that my eyes can scan. Instead, all I see are heads that don’t even closely resemble his. Even though I know he’s not here, I still hold onto the ounce of hope that he actually cares about me and will want to make things work. Except he doesn’t care and if he did want to make things work, I just maybe would have stayed. We got in another fight two days ago and haven’t talked since. This is how it always go with him. We fight, we say sorry, and then we fight again. We act like the perfect, happy couple on Instagram but in reality, we’re more broken than shattered glass. Maybe that’s why we’ve stayed together for so long; to try and glue each other back together with our own broken selves.

I glance at my phone. 7:42 A.M. Still no text message from him. I scroll through my phone and find his contact. With one swift click I hit the block button and erase any trace of memories that I had with him. I know I deserve better; Paris will give me that. My heart aches but I have to leave. If there was one thing my parents taught me is that love is a choice. Once you stop choosing to love someone, the relationship will crumble.

The flight attendant announces over the loudspeaker that the plane is preparing for takeoff. I take my fake Louis Vuitton duffle bag and place it underneath the seat.

“How many years did it take you to save up for a bag like that?” says the middle-aged woman.

“It’s not real,” I say too quickly to sound enthusiastic. “Sorry, what’s your name?”

“My name is Ruth.”

“It’s great to meet you Ruth, I’m Daphne Livingston.”

She extends her hand towards mine and gives me one of those business-like handshakes that you do before a job interview.

The plane takes off and the window is filled with nothing but blue skies and fluffy white clouds.

“Well Daphne if you don’t mind me asking, what brings you to Paris?”

“It’s a little complicated,” I say with slight hesitation.

“Life is always complicated. Plus, I’m practically a stranger so I have no place to judge you.”

She has a point. Would it really be that bad to tell her the reason I am leaving my Maryland home of 17 years?

“I’ve been told by many other strangers that I am a great listener too,” she says with a hint of humor.

I let out a laugh under my breath.

“I’m moving to Paris,” I say with confidence that I seemed to have lacked less than an hour ago. “My parents fight as if they were siblings and my boyfriend, well ex-boyfriend, he could care less about my existence.”

Ruth looks at me in a motherly way. I continue to ramble about my parents and their issues that have led to neglect towards myself, their own daughter. I tell her about my ex-boyfriend and how I felt nothing more than a convenience to him. Opening up to Ruth feels as if a heavy weight is being lifted off my shoulders.

“Daphne, you’re a strong girl,” Ruth says kindly. “Paris is only going to make you stronger. I can promise you that.”

With that, my mind drifts into sleep as the reality of an 8-hour flight settles in. I toss and turn for what seems like an eternity, but I wake to the sudden jolt of the wheels hitting the ground and the screeching of the breaks. I have arrived in Paris. I look to my right and see Ruth reading a book. Did I really just sleep through the flight?

“Bonjour,” Ruth says with excitement. “We made it.”

“Thank you, Ruth,” is all I feel I have to say.

I grab my belongings and make my way off the plane. The airport is lively and filled with people of all different ages speaking more French than my brain can comprehend. As I make my way to the front of the airport, I stop directly in my tracks as my eyes land on blooming flowers of every kind sitting and hanging all around me. These flowers are growing in Paris, and so will I.