The total borrowed across the six years was twenty-three thousand eight hundred, which I’ve been calling twenty-four thousand. Again, rounding up slightly.
The remainder — fifteen thousand from work earnings — was the math of the rest. Forty-eight thousand total costs, minus ninety-two hundred in grants, minus twenty-three thousand eight hundred in loans, leaves fifteen thousand from earnings. That’s approximate because “total education costs” includes things that aren’t perfectly tallied — books, supplies, a lab kit I bought in my third semester, the fee for my clinical practicum application. The fifteen thousand is approximate in the right direction.
None of this means my parents owe me thirty-six thousand dollars. The money was in their account and they made a decision about their account. What it means is that the story that I’d received substantial support and chosen independence is not true. The story that I funded my education with a scholarship is not true.
The records don’t give me those years back. They give me the right to say what happened.
The email from my mother said: “Don’t worry about that part. Focus on finding the right program.”
I had found a right program. I had focused. I had not worried, publicly, because worrying publicly felt like asking for something I’d already been told I wasn’t getting.
I put all the documents in a new folder on my desktop. I labeled it with the date I created it. Then I called Ethan and asked if he had time for lunch.
The Things I Hadn’t Said