I returned to the envelope.
The second document was from a financial institution.
It listed an account in my daughter’s name.Browse Reference
Willa Bennett Education Trust.
I stared at it.
Then I looked at the number.
Twenty-five thousand dollars.
I felt something crack open inside my chest.
“No.”
Mrs.
Whitaker’s eyes softened.
“No, you don’t understand,” I whispered.
“Willa has scholarships.
She’s applying for grants.
We’ll figure it out.”
“I know you will.”
“Then why—”
“Because figuring it out
has been your entire life.”
I swallowed hard.
Mrs.
Whitaker leaned back in her chair.
“For eight years, I watched you figure everything out.”
I looked away.
That sentence hurt more than I expected.
Because she was right.
I had been figuring things out since I was twenty-six years old and Willa’s father, Daniel, decided that marriage and fatherhood were responsibilities he could simply step away from.Get Marriage Tips
He hadn’t disappeared completely.
That almost would have been easier.
Instead, he had become an occasional text message.
A late birthday card.
A promise to take Willa for the weekend followed by a cancellation Friday afternoon.
He paid support when he remembered or when I pushed hard enough.
Mostly, it had been me.
Me and cleaning supplies.
Me and a used Honda.
Me and lists taped inside kitchen cabinets showing which bills could wait another week.
When I first started cleaning Mrs.
Whitaker’s
house, Willa was nine.
She had needed braces.
The orthodontist wanted a deposit I didn’t have.
That Thursday, I had shown up anyway.
