I was not happy exactly. I was functional and forward-moving, which in retrospect is probably its own kind of success.
When I transferred to the state university program for health administration, I was twenty-one. I had eighteen credits from Meadowfield that transferred cleanly. I needed two more years of full-time study and a clinical practicum.
I also had, by that point, taken on fourteen thousand dollars in student loans. The math of the original spreadsheet had not worked out. Math rarely does.
At twenty-three I finished my coursework. At twenty-four I completed the practicum, which involved six months of unpaid placement at a regional clinic where I learned more about operational efficiency in healthcare than in any classroom. The clinic was forty minutes from my apartment. I took the bus.
I graduated in May. Sophie came. My parents came. Ethan sent a card.
In the photos from that day, I look tired and extremely pleased. I was both of those things.
Affection, Favoritism, and the Story Told Afterward
The thing I want to be honest about is that my family is not made up of monsters.
My mother makes soup from scratch when someone is sick. She calls on birthdays and picks up specific presents — not generic ones, but the ones that show she’s been paying attention. She remembered that I’d mentioned wanting a particular book once, in passing, and gave it to me the following Christmas.
My father taught me to drive and to change a tire and to read a map before GPS existed. He came to every one of my school events through high school, sat in the uncomfortable folding chairs, and applauded with genuine enthusiasm for things he had no particular investment in.