I tighten my hold on the railing and press myself against the hard metal. Hong Kong’s skyscrapers glint under the sun, seeming as if they were made out of fire themselves. A warm breeze hits my face and I close my eyes. With the cruise ship gaining speed under my feet, I’m flying.

“Enjoying yourself?” an unfamiliar voice asks.

I start and turn to see a middle-aged woman wearing a baseball cap and holding some kind of fruity cocktail. I feel my cheeks redden. Was my enjoyment of the moment that obvious?

“Sure.” I grin sheepishly.

She smiles knowingly. “Get it, girl. Live it up, while you can. One day you’ll be my age, wondering where all the good times went.” She gives me a wink and ceremoniously sips her drink.

I try not to laugh. “You’re American.”

“So are you.”

“Yeah, but…did you know that before you talked to me? How did you know I would speak English?”

With my black hair and pale skin, people have been coming up to me and speaking in Cantonese all week long.

“I didn’t, hon. I just hoped you would.”

I glance back at the shrinking city. With the sun getting lower in the sky, the blinding light seems to be getting even brighter. I blink and turn away from the railing.

“I’m Lauren.”

“Donna. From Florida. Nice to meet you.” She extends a tanned hand and I shake it.

“You’re not here all by yourself, are you?” Donna asks. “Where’s your boyfriend?”

I suppress a laugh. “I’m here with my parents.”

“No boyfriend?”

“No boyfriend,” I confirm.

“But you’re so pretty.”

“Thanks,” I say uncertainly.

“You have a northern accent. Let me guess where you’re from…New York?”

“Right on the first try,” I admit with a grin.

“Are you here looking for a boyfriend? Because, you know, they call Macau the Vegas of Asia. You could get yourself a rich boyfriend there.”

“My parents would love that,” I reply sarcastically.

Donna chuckles and swats at my arm.

“Lauren!”

I turn at the sound of my mother’s voice. Still yards away, she’s striding down the deck with her scarf billowing around her neck and her hips swaying. She could have been a supermodel, but instead, she went to school and became an accountant. Still, regardless of her job, she has gorgeous skin. We look more like sisters than we do mother and daughter.

Mom places her hand on my shoulder. “Who’s your new friend?”

“Donna Tuttle. Nice to meet you.”

They lightly shake hands and I can see Mom studying Donna, trying to figure out whether she’s appropriate company for me or not.

I suck in my lower lip and hold back a sigh. I’ve been out of school for only two weeks, and already, I feel like I’m ten years old again. My parents are always there, waiting to pass judgment, waiting to make decisions for me. Waiting to decide my destiny.

Mom turns back to me. “It’s almost dinner time.”

“Okay. I’ll be right there.”

Donna looks confused. “Oh, goodness. I thought they weren’t serving for another hour.”

Mom coolly smiles. “We like to freshen up beforehand.”

She may not have ended up walking runways, but Mom always treats every event like we keep company with royalty. To her, this isn’t a little cruise between Hong Kong and Macau. It’s the Titanic, and we’re about to have dinner at the captain’s table. Retiring to our rooms and tying on our best pearls and diamonds pre-caviar is of utmost importance.

I say goodbye to Donna, telling her I hope to see her again, and follow my mother to our cabins. It’s a short cruise—just overnight—but my parents managed to book us two separate cabins. I get dressed in the flowered cocktail dress and nude heels that I know Mom and Dad want me to wear, and freshen up my makeup.

When I come out of my room, both my parents are in the hall, the perfect picture of a happy, middle-aged couple. They both look me up and down and give nods of approval.

Mom beams in my direction. “I knew that dress would suit you perfectly.”

I smooth down the pleats of the brightly colored dress and give her a smile. She bought it for me before I got home from college, and while I don’t know how much it cost, I’m sure it wasn’t cheap. I don’t follow fashion at all, but even I would be a doofus to not know the designer whose name is sewn into the collar.

We make our way to the dining room, where dozens of white tablecloth-clad, circular tables are placed around the room. A string quartet plays on a small stage, and waiters in bowties scurry around with bottles of wine. I settle into my seat and lay my napkin across my lap. The number of utensils laid out next to my plate hints at a five-course dinner.

I stay silent while my parents peruse the wine list and discuss the pros and cons of vintage bottles. I left my phone in my cabin, and I desperately wish I hadn’t. It’s only been a little over a week since I’ve seen my best friend, Willow, but I already miss her desperately. Just a quick ‘hey’ from her would be well appreciated.

“We’ll have the Malbec,” Dad tells the waiter, who gives a nod and takes the wine menu from him.

The bottle order and the soup on its way, my parents turn their attention to me.

“So,” Dad begins, taking a moment to clear his throat before continuing. “How have you liked your graduation trip?”

I don’t skip a beat in replying. “It’s been amazing.”

I’m not lying. It really has. When my parents told me they wanted to take me on a weeklong trip to celebrate my graduation from college, I already had a list of destinations in mind—Hawaii, Italy, Costa Rica.

Hong Kong had never crossed my mind. It was the land of my ancestors, the place my mom’s parents had been born. Though they’d left China when they were in their twenties, immigrating to America and having my mom in New Jersey, I’d never once thought of visiting where they came from.

Just a week in the city had turned my world upside down. My parents had taken me on trips before, but never to somewhere so exotic. The sounds, the people, the food…even the colors, seemed different. Walking through Hong Kong’s streets, I felt alive in a way I never did in New York.

The last seven mornings, when I opened my eyes, I actually saw what was in front of me. I wasn’t consumed by thoughts of school, work, relationships, or anything else. I was living in the moment.

“I wish Pop-Pop and Ma could have come,” I sigh.

Mom purses her lips in that way that says she’s having an emotional moment, but doesn’t want to show it. “The flight would have been too much for your grandfather.”

“I know,” I agree. “I can’t wait to show him the sketches I drew, though.”

Dad gruffly grunts. “Or you can just show him pictures.”

The heat of oncoming anger flows through me. There’s an aggressive tone to his voice, and I think I know where the conversation is headed. Taking a moment to myself, I take a deep breath before responding.

“Pop-Pop likes my drawings.”

“He’s just indulging you,” Dad says dismissively as he busily rearranges the silverware on the table. He’s not looking at me, instead seeming overly-involved in getting his soup spoon exactly where it needs to be.

I don’t know how to respond to that comment. My face is practically burning now, and my vision swims with tears as the waiter arrives and puts a bowl of some kind of creamed soup in front of me.

My drawings are good. I know they are. And I’m not just being cocky. I’ve been sketching since the moment I could hold a pencil. My parents used to encourage it, too. When I was a kid—and even in high school—they always bragged to their friends about what a good artist their daughter was.

But then, once I started college in Connecticut, things changed. It all had to do with my post-college plans. When art was something that I did for fun, everything was hunky dory—but once I started talking about making a career out of it, the shit hit the fan.

“You have a business degree,” Dad sternly reminds me. “What would be the use in letting that go to waste?”

I force myself not to laugh out loud over the absurdity of the question.

“It’s a great degree to have,” I agree. “And it’s going to be perfect for starting my own illustration business.”

My parents exchange a quick look.

Dad works his jaw. “You’ve enjoyed this trip, right?”

“Yes,” I dumbly say, though I’m pretty sure I’ve already said as much.

“How do you plan on continuing to take these kinds of vacations? This is a graduation present, Lauren. It’s something fun for you to experience before you get serious again and go to grad school.”

“Dad, I don’t need to go to grad school—”

He barrels on with his speech. “You can’t make a living drawing pictures for kid’s books. I know that sounds like a great idea right now, especially with your friend Willow living out her ‘creative’ fantasy, but just wait and see what happens. Five years from now, she’s going to be a nobody, living in a shack in Queens. Do you want to end up like that?”

I’m trying really hard to keep my composure. I am. But my dad just managed to insult not only me, but my best friend as well.

“Willow is a talented actress,” I say slowly. “And her parents support her.”

Mom clucks.

“She’s spoiled,” Dad retorts. “That’s what she is.”

I spread my hands wide in disbelief. “Why are we talking about this?”

Mom twists her wedding ring around her finger, something she does when she gets anxious or upset. “Put yourself in our shoes, Lauren. What if you saw your own child going down a path that you know they’re going to regret?”

I give my answer some careful thought. I don’t want to be disrespectful to my parents, but I also can’t just sit here and take their belittling anymore. They were the ones who pushed me to go to business school. I was only trying to make them happy. I thought that college would be some kind of compromise. With a business degree under my belt, I could show them that I was focused and savvy enough to go into business as a book illustrator. I could show them that there was a way to incorporate what I wanted with what they thought I needed.

Now, I see I was wrong.

It’s bad enough walking through the world feeling like no one is on your side, but with your own parents against you, a somewhat-bad situation can become hell.

I take another deep breath. Knowing this conversation would come up eventually, I have a monologue prepared.

“I know it seems unconventional,” I tentatively say, looking from one parent to the other. “But a lot of other people have actually done it. Look at all of the children’s books that are out there, today. A real artist illustrates each one. There really are people making a living off of doing this.”

My dad, of course, has a rebuttal. “And for every one of them, there are twenty others who aren’t ‘making it’.”

I sputter in disbelief. “What? Where are you getting this statistic from?”

“Look around you, Lauren. There are struggling artists everywhere. Our waiter is probably one of them.”

“I have a plan,” I harshly whisper through gritted teeth. “You know that.”

Dad drops his voice, as well. “Gallivanting around the world isn’t a plan, dear.”

“It’s only going to be for a little while. And you know I’m not going to ask you guys for any money. I’ll save more than enough from my summer job. Then, once I’m done traveling some, I’ll come home and get to work on starting my business.”

Both my parents gaze back at me with unmistakable looks of pity. A lump forms in my throat and falls into my stomach, dragging me down. I’m defeated. There’s nothing I can say. It doesn’t matter how many times I try to tell them that my plan is a viable one. They just don’t want to believe it.

“This is pointless,” I mutter, more to myself than to them. Tossing my napkin on the table, I quickly stand up.

Mom blinks at me in confusion. “Where are you going?”

“I’m not hungry,” I answer, venom in my tone.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Dad’s face turning red. I don’t care. My parents have given me every material possession a person could want, but they’ve never given me the one thing that I desperately need: for someone to really believe in me.

Moving fast—not an easy feat in heels—I stalk across the dining room. There’s a ringing in my ears, and my hands shake at my sides.

At least they could humor me.

A dozen thoughts fly through my head. Worse, is the anger enveloping me. It gets stronger as I walk down the hall to our cabins. Yanking open my door, I grab my purse and shove it into the messenger bag that my sketchbook and pencils live in. I need to take a breather, and it’s not going to happen while on the ship.

Luckily, my timing is perfect. The cruise ship docked at the port in Macau some time during dinner. The plank is down, allowing passengers to disembark. The cruise’s program had this period scheduled off, giving us three hours of free time in Macau.

I’ve never needed ‘free time’ more than I do now.

As I walk away from the ship, the adrenaline steadily leaves me. The sights and sounds of a new city in the early evening fill my senses. Buildings tower around me, cars honk, and pedicab drivers call out to each other. I make each step slower than the last, taking in everything and looking for something worthy of sketching.

I pass a large fountain in the middle of a square and then turn right, following my nose. A large market that’s partly outdoor, partly indoor, is winding down for the day, but there are still rows of fish laid out across beds of ice, and fresh, vibrant produce piled high in crates.

Because I lied to my parents about being hungry, I buy a stick of fried meat from a vendor and go back to the square. Eating helps calm my nerves even further. The fact that I don’t even know what I’m eating is kind of exciting. It helps me forget about the hurtful things my parents said.

Finished with the meat skewer, I pull out my sketchbook and survey the area around me. A group of schoolkids plays soccer on the other side of the square, their ball bouncing off the side of a building. A woman walks nearby, pulling a wailing toddler behind her. A stoic old man watches from his perch on a bench. Certain that I’ve found the perfect subject, I get to work surreptitiously drawing him.

I exaggerate the man’s features—his ears, his eyes. The sketch is a caricature. It’s the way I always draw people. I collect faces the way some people collect stamps, keeping my drawings in notebooks and folders at home. The idea is that, one day, a face might really inspire me, and I might have a great idea for a children’s book.

Time slows down as I draw, the sweet-smelling paper and the earthy charcoal between my fingers being all that exists. As I finish shading the man’s cap, I look up and find he’s vanished.

He’s not the only one who’s gone. The schoolkids have disappeared, and the daylight is quickly receding. The square is taking on a new tone, with streetlights flickering on in all corners. I close my sketchbook and stuff it back into my bag.

How much time has gone by? It only felt like a few minutes, but I managed to complete a whole portrait, so, surely, it was longer than that.

I make my way back toward the port, picking up my pace as I go. My heels click against the pavement and I skirt to the side, dodging other pedestrians. Signs of nightlife are starting to show. The younger people are already out, the guys looking suave with their slicked-back hair and the women adorable with their miniskirts and glittery makeup. No doubt, Macau is an amazing place to party, but it’s too bad I’ll never know. I have a ship to catch.

As the port comes into view, I start scanning it. I can’t remember exactly where my cruise ship was docked, but it shouldn’t be too hard to find. There’s what appears to be some kind of large, yellow fishing boat, and a small, blue sailboat…but nothing that looks familiar.

My stomach does a somersault and I frantically glance up and down the docks. Then I see it: the familiar monolith sailing across the water in the distance, its white and red lights dancing over the waves in the night.

I’ve missed my ship.

They’ve gone without me.