Just as the shiny brochure promised, from the moment I set foot on the Harvard campus last fall, I was exposed to an exciting and enlightening new world.

I was born and raised 1,500 miles away, in a small apartment in Jackson, Mississippi. I am an only child, so my mother overpowered me with her love. For someone who sees so much beauty in the world, she worked awfully hard to protect me from it. Television, rap music, and even basketball with the kids on the block were beyond consideration. It left me a bit bitter as a teenager, but I grew to appreciate her enormous sacrifices (牺牲) — walking me to the library every afternoon, laboring at multiple jobs to keep food on the table, and telling me stories late into the night.

When I announced the summer before my senior year of high school that I had decided to apply to a school in New England, I noticed her hesitant look before a warm smile enveloped her face. I pretended not to see, but I was never able to forget it. I tried to explain my reasons for wanting to leave — to prove I was smart enough, fear of taking the path of least resistance, the classic teenage feeling of being trapped but the words just made me sound shallow and ungrateful.

Nevertheless, I began to work on the college applications — an early one for Harvard and roughly a dozen others standing by. I knew the chance of getting into Harvard was not in my favor. To my joy, I was notified of my acceptance into Harvard three days before my birthday. That night, after all of the celebratory texts and hugs, I sat in my room and began to cry uncontrollably.

Over the course of this year, I have changed in ways I never anticipated. I think I know now why my mother let me go. Harvard has forced me to grow and take a fair look at the world, and at myself. Needless to say, I would not trade the experience for anything.

Raised in a fatherless home, my father was extremely strict with us children. His attitude didn’t soften as I grew into adulthood and went to college. I had to ride the bus whenever I came home. Though the bus stopped about two miles from home, Dad never met me, even in severe weather. If I spoke unhappily, he’d say in his loudest father-voice, “That’s what your legs are for!”

The walk didn’t bother me as much as the fear of walking alone along the highway and country roads. I also felt less than valued that my father didn’t seem concerned about my safety. But that feeling disappeared one spring evening.

It had been a particularly difficult week at college after long hours in labs. I longed for home. When the bus reached the stop, I stepped off and dragged my suitcase to begin the long journey home.

A row of hedge(树篱) edged the driveway that climbed the hill to our house. Once I had turned off the highway to start the last lap of my journey, I always had a sense of relief to see the hedge because it meant that I was almost home. On that particular evening, the hedge had just come into view when I saw something gray moving along the top of the hedge, moving toward the house. Upon closer observation, I realized it was the top of my father’s head. Then I knew, each time I’d come home, he had stood behind the hedge, watching, until he knew I had arrived safely. I swallowed hard against the tears. He did care, after all.

On later visits, that spot of gray became my watchtower. I could hardly wait until I was close enough to watch for its secret movement above the greenery. Upon reaching home, I would find my father sitting innocently in his chair. “So! My son, it’s you!” he’d say, his face lengthening into pretended surprise. I replied, “Yes, Dad, it’s me. I’m home.”