Chapter 10 - The Master of My Fate
Four years later.
May in Columbus arrived in a burst of brilliant sunshine and warm spring breezes. The stadium at Ohio State University was packed with thousands of families, faculty, and graduates dressed in black caps and gowns.
I stood in the staging area alongside my fellow graduates, adjusting the red and gray honor cords hanging around my neck. I was graduating magna cum laude with a Bachelor’s degree in English and Corporate Communications, with a job offer already signed at a prestigious publishing house in Chicago starting in July.
Through the crowd of graduates, I spotted my family sitting in the lower bowl of the stadium.
Grandma Evelyn sat in the front row, wearing her finest blue dress, holding a large bouquet of yellow sunflowers. Beside her sat Dad, looking sharp and beaming with absolute pride. Next to him was Ethan, now twenty, currently completing his Associate's degree and working as an assistant store manager. They were holding up a handmade poster that read: GO NATALIE! WE ARE SO PROUD OF YOU!
My mother was not there. Over the past four years, our contact had remained minimal—a formal text message on holidays, a brief polite exchange when necessary. She still lived in her small apartment, working as an administrative assistant, unable to ever fully admit the damage her narcissism had caused. But I no longer carried anger toward her. Anger required energy, and my energy belonged entirely to my future.
When my name echoed over the stadium loudspeakers—"Natalie Evelyn Bennett!"—I stepped onto the grand stage.
I walked across the wooden platform, shook the dean's hand, and received my diploma ribbon. The sun shone bright and warm against my face as the crowd cheered.
As I walked down the stage ramp, I reached beneath my black gown and touched the small silver pocket watch tucked safely into my dress pocket. I pressed the small release button on top, popping open the silver casing to check the time.
The hands ticked forward smoothly, precisely, without pausing or looking back.
Four years ago, my mother handed me an invoice for two hundred thousand dollars, trying to convince me that my life was a burden, a debt, and a mistake. She thought she could put a price tag on my existence and keep me trapped in her debt forever.
She was wrong.
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My life wasn't a bill to be paid. It was an unwritten book, and I held the pen.
I raised my diploma toward the sun, looked out at the cheering crowd, and stepped forward into the rest of my life—free, whole, and forever independent.
