By the time I was seventeen, filling out applications with the particular anxiety of a kid who has been told the plan without being told how firm it is, the thirty-six thousand felt real. It felt like a foundation.
I was eighteen when Ethan’s situation changed.
He was twenty, a sophomore at a school that cost considerably more than either of us had expected. He’d started in a general program and then shifted direction — toward graphic design and digital media, which required a different department, different equipment, additional fees. The program he wanted to transfer into had a higher tuition structure.
My parents sat me down in April of my senior year. My father did most of the talking. He said Ethan needed more support than they’d anticipated. He said they’d had to use the money they’d set aside. He said he was sorry.
My mother said they knew I was capable. She said she knew I could find another way. She said it in the tone of voice she used when she was most certain of something, which is also the tone of voice she uses when she most needs something to be true.
I was eighteen. I believed them that it was the only option. I believed them that capable was a compliment.
What I did not do, because I was eighteen and I had a mother who was very certain and a father who was very sorry and a table that felt like it was sinking under me, was say: you promised me that money. You said it was for me. You’ve been saying it was for me for six years.