Study Abroad: We do, We did, We Love

I stood in my father’s study, where the air was always thick with the scent of old paper, vanilla-scented dust, and the sharp tang of metal polish. It was a room frozen in a different century, a sanctuary of a die-hard American who spent his weekends chasing the ghosts of the nation's forming. My father, Caleb, was meticulously folding an antique thirteen-star flag, his calloused hands moving with a quiet reverence usually reserved for prayer. Each fold was precise, matching the alignment of the hand-sewn stars that represented a simpler, more rugged hope. He loved these pieces of history, buying and selling them to keep our fractured world afloat, always reminding my sister and me of our grand lineage. Allegedly, we carried the blood of the one Native American who signed the Declaration of Independence, and the author of the "Star Spangled Banner" himself. To my father, the dirt of the Midwest was a sacred trust, a physical anchor that defined who we were.

"You have to remember where your feet are planted, Amelia," he said, his gravelly voice barely rising above the creak of the old floorboards. He did not look up from the flag, but his shoulders were tight with a silent, heavy disapproval. He had never approved of this grand European adventure, viewing the old world as a place of dusty monarchies and needless complication. "A person can wander too far from the soil that grew them. The stars on this flag don’t change, even if you are looking at them from across the ocean."

My suitcases sat by the door, heavy and swollen. They were packed with my life—tight pink tights, worn leather soft shoes, vintage knit cardigans, and academic books. They felt less like luggage and more like the physical weight of two very different parents pulling me in opposite directions. Outside, the low rumble of an idling engine signaled that my mother, Elara, was already waiting in the gravel driveway. I could see her through the window, tapping her fingers against the steering wheel of her sedan, her eyes fixed on her watch. She was a woman of Queenly ambitions, carrying the proud, independent blood of Scottish, Irish, and German ancestors who had stood up for women's working rights. To her, this study abroad trip to London was not just an education; it was a royal summons, a chance for her daughter to escape the provincial laziness of the countryside and claim a grander, more cosmopolitan destiny.

The divorce between them, the very first in our conservative Midwestern county, had left a physical canyon in this house. I was constantly torn between my father’s purely American, land-bound heritage and my mother’s dreamy, world-traveling independence. Dancing had been my only sanctuary from the quiet war of their oppositional ancestries, a place where I could move without having to choose a side. But even the dance world had its financial strains, and now, this scholarship to study in London was my bridge to something new.

My father finally set the folded flag down and reached into his pocket. He pulled out a small, cold coin and pressed it into my palm. It was heavy, worn smooth at the edges, but as I looked closely, I noticed the distinct, elegant markings of a British pound. "Take this," he whispered, his eyes finally meeting mine with a fierce, protective warmth. "It’s a lucky charm. Just a little piece of metal to keep you grounded when the world starts moving too fast. Just don't go forgetting the country that made you."

I squeezed the coin, its metallic chill biting into my skin like an anchor. "I won't, Dad. I promise."

The car horn honked twice, sharp and demanding. The illusion of peace shattered. I carried my bags out into the bright Midwestern sun, my father following at a distance, his silence louder than any argument. My mother immediately hopped out of the car, her bright silk scarf fluttering in the breeze. She was a whirlwind of energy, her transatlantic accent sharp against the soft local drawl.

"Oh, darling, we must hurry! The traffic toward Chicago will be absolutely dreadful, and we cannot miss the boarding window," Elara said, taking my smaller bag and tossing it into the trunk. Her manic excitement was a stark contrast to my father's solemn stance on the porch. As she slammed the trunk, she leaned closer, her eyes sparkling with a secret thrill. "I have a surprise for you, Amelia. I didn't want to upset your father, but I’ve already contacted a wonderful genealogist in London. A Dr. Julian Thorne. He is going to help us dig into the Livingstone registry. We are going to find out exactly how close we are to the royal line."

My breath caught. "Mom, you didn't tell Dad?"

"Of course not, sweetheart," she whispered, patting my cheek. "Some dreams are meant for those who wish to fly, not those who wish to dig in the dirt."

The drive to Chicago O'Hare International Airport was a blur of highway green and my mother's rapid-fire advice on how to carry myself like nobility. But when we arrived at the terminal, the harsh fluorescent lights of the airport washed away the romantic haze. The terminal was a chaotic sea of rushing travelers, a dense forest of signs and security lines that made my heart hammer against my ribs. My seventeen-year-old sister, Greer, clung tightly to my arm, her wild curly hair bouncing as she dragged her feet to slow our progress toward the gate. Her playful teasing had been constant all morning, but now, her grip was desperate, masking her fear of being left behind in our quiet town.

"If you don't make out with a prince—a real, actual prince—I am going to be so disappointed," Greer whispered, her voice cracking slightly as she tried to laugh. "Seriously, Amelia. Write to me about the castles, the tea, and the boys with those posh accents. Don't just spend all your time sweating in a dance studio."

"I don't think princes hang out at contemporary dance schools, Greer," I said, pulling her into a tight hug. She felt so small, a reminder of the stable, broken family we had both been hanging onto for dear life. "But if I see one, I'll tell him you said hello."

"Just don't become too English to remember us," she mumbled into my shoulder.

After the tearful goodbyes and the long, cold walk through the security line, I finally found my window seat on the massive aircraft. As the engines roared to life and the plane lifted off the runway, the heavy pull of gravity pressed me back into my seat. I looked down through the small thick glass at the sprawling, perfect grid of the Midwestern fields below. The green and gold squares grew smaller and smaller, turning into a neat, predictable quilt. I was leaving the only certainty I had ever known, suspended between my father’s land and my mother’s sky, embarking on a dream that had not yet taken shape. I reached into my pocket, my fingers brushing against the cold British coin, and wondered which side of the ocean would finally feel like home.