The morning I left, Mom hugged me in the driveway with one arm because she was holding coffee in the other.
“Call if you need anything,” she said.
I almost laughed.
Dad handed me an envelope. For one wild second, hope rushed through me. Later, at the bus station, I opened it and found two hundred dollars and a note in his square handwriting.
For emergencies. Be smart.
I kept the money.
I tore up the note.
I arrived at Northlake State beneath a gray afternoon sky with two suitcases, borrowed textbooks, and a bank balance that made my stomach clench. Orientation had turned campus into a festival of beginnings. Families filled sidewalks with rolling bins and duffel bags. Fathers carried mini fridges. Mothers made beds and cried. Students were being launched into adulthood by hands that still held on one last time.
I dragged my luggage alone.
Dorm housing was too expensive, so I rented a room in an old house six blocks from campus. The listing called it “cozy and charming,” which meant the stairs sagged, the heater clanged, and the kitchen smelled faintly of burnt onions no matter who cleaned it. Four other students lived there. We were polite ghosts, passing in hallways with mugs, laundry, and tired eyes.
