Of course the van comes. When has it not? It comes every time. It comes to take me from my grandparent's house to the airport, where I’ll leave for the other side of the world, not to return for the next three years. It’s always the same. I wake up, hoping the driver forgets. But he doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t. He wants his job. It’s a selfish thought, hating the driver for doing his job. He drives me several hours to the airport when he could be doing something else. Of course he wouldn’t want to wake up early to pick my family up either. Still, I hate him. I want to stay in this house, at least for another day. I hate him for coming, for not forgetting. As I tearfully wish farewell to my grandparents, feeling the reality that in a couple of hours, I’ll be on my way to the other side of the world. Meanwhile, the driver is helping us put our heavy luggage on the trunk. Still, I hate him.