Daughter

I remember my red raincoat with the plaid lining. It was my first raincoat, having never needed one in the dry eastern Oregon climate where I was raised. My mom and dad bought it for me when I got accepted to a university in a town known for rainy weather.

Mother

I remember the raincoat we bought for you before you went away to college. It was red, your favorite color, and had a plaid lining. We were so proud of you (we still are!). You worked so hard in high school and were so proud of the scholarships and awards you’d earned.

Daughter

I was a first-generation college student and the first of the four daughters to “go away” to school. I needed a part-time job to help pay tuition and was excited when I was hired on campus to read to a student with a visual disability. The tutoring office gave me his contact information, and when I called him he invited me to come by his dorm to meet and pick up his books.

Mother

We talked quite a bit at the beginning of fall. You made some new girlfriends at church and a few in your dorm. Your roommate was a graduate student from China, and you didn’t see much of her. I remember you talking about Rachael, the girl across the hall. You two had a lot in common, having both run cross country in high school. You rode bikes across town to the Fred Meyer and ran on the trails near campus. You always had a funny story to tell. I remember your dad and I worrying about you out on the bike path alone.

Daughter

I must have been excited in those first few weeks of college, but I don’t remember. I hear my friends talk about their first college year with great detail. Their favorite late-night hangout. Roommates’ names. Memorable professors. Tales of parties. Me? I remember the red raincoat my parents bought me. I remember the red raincoat because I was wearing it the day I was assaulted on campus.

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