“Girls have it easier. Less pressure.”
“Drew’s just book-smart. That’s not the same as real-world smart.”
“She doesn’t have Tyler’s burdens.”
Thanksgiving last year, I’d just gotten accepted to three universities. I was waiting for Mom to bring it up at dinner. She didn’t.
Instead, she stood at the head of the table, raised her glass, and said, “I want everyone to know Tyler is going to do something incredible. I believe that with my whole heart.”
The table clapped. Uncle Jim, Aunt Patty, Cousin Sarah, everyone.
Nobody mentioned my acceptances. Not one person.
Dad sat at the far end, fork in hand, staring at his mashed potatoes like they held the answer to something.
After dinner, my phone rang. Grandma Ruth. She wasn’t at Thanksgiving that year—bad knee that winter—but somehow she knew.
Her voice was careful, deliberate.
“Drew, I need you to keep everything I’ve ever sent you. Every envelope. You understand me?”
I didn’t understand. Not then.
“Yes, Grandma. I will.”
I wish I’d asked why.
Three weeks before move-in day, a Tuesday in July, I was sitting at the kitchen counter with my laptop open, finalizing my enrollment checklist. Housing deposit paid from my coffee shop savings. Meal plan selected. Tuition to be transferred from my college fund.
I called the bank to confirm the wire instructions. Routine. I’d rehearsed this call in my head for months.
The woman on the line asked for my Social Security number, date of birth, account verification. I gave her everything.
Then silence.
Not a pause. Silence. The kind where you can hear someone choosing their words.
“Miss Collins, I’m showing a current balance on this account of $214.36.”
I laughed. I actually laughed, because obviously there was a mistake.
“I’m sorry. Can you check again? The account should have approximately $187,000.”
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