I knew exactly which folder.
Inside were the things I never had the heart to throw away. An acceptance letter from the state university with its strong pre-med program, dated the spring of my junior year, a few weeks before I took that test at the Dairy Barn. A financial aid estimate. Three drafts of a personal essay called Why I Want to Be a Doctor.
I had been that girl once. My biology teacher, Mr. Calloway, wrote in my yearbook, You have the stubbornness to do hard things. Don’t waste it. When I was seven and my appendix burst, a night nurse named Patricia held my hand until morning, and I decided right then that I would grow up to be somebody’s Patricia.
Then life took its detour. After the twins were born I had rent to pay and formula to buy. There was no room in my days for chemistry textbooks. So I folded those letters, tucked them in a folder, and told myself dreams were something for people with parents.
