I saw Claire Mercer’s expression tighten.
Arthur Mercer watched me without blinking.
I let myself look at the rows of faces.
At Mason.
At Lucy swinging her feet in the chair.
At Emma with her hands folded so tightly her knuckles were white.
“Mr. Mercer is right about something,” I said.
“Pain should not be inherited.”
That surprised people.
They heard it.
I made sure they did.
“No child should be trapped in suffering because the adults around them romanticized struggle. No daughter should think bad knees and missed meals are the price of moral worth. No son should be told that breaking down quietly is noble just because his father did.”
Ray lowered his eyes.
I felt mine sting.
“But there is a difference,” I said, “between opening more doors and padlocking the ones working families already know how to walk through.”
That landed.
I knew it did.
Because the room went still the way a road goes still right before weather breaks.
Arthur Mercer leaned forward.
“Ms. Brooks.”
“Linda.”
He gave the smallest nod.
“Linda. If you and I agree that hardship should not be destiny, then why defend programs that often lead directly into hard labor?”
I answered before the last word finished leaving his mouth.
“Because choice is not the enemy.”
I stepped away from the chair row so people could see me clearly.
“Because a school that offers only one kind of prestige is not expanding horizons. It is ranking human beings.”
I turned toward the back wall where college pennants had been brought in for display from the counseling office.
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