“You said you had.”
“What does that mean?”
“You hadn’t withdrawn yet.”
I stared at her.
“I thought you had.”
“No. Your father kept telling you to wait until you were sure.”
Dad nodded slowly.
“That sounds familiar.”
Mom continued.
“The letter came, and I read the first paragraph because I thought it was financial paperwork.”
“You opened my mail?”
Her eyes dropped.
“Yes.”
Dad looked at her.
“Margaret.”
“I know.”
My mother rarely looked small.
That evening she did.
“I saw that the scholarship could be deferred. And I thought I should talk to you before you answered.”
“Why?”
“Because I was afraid you would go.”
There it was.
No elaborate secret.
No conspiracy.
A simple human fear.
I sat back.
Mom’s hands began to tremble.
“I was exhausted too,” she said. “Your father was working. Denise had left. You were barely sleeping. I had this baby in the house and two daughters whose lives suddenly seemed to be falling apart in different directions.”
