My mother picked up my Temple acceptance letter, glanced at it the way someone studies a dish they already know they won’t order, and put it back on the table.
“Why would we spend that kind of money on you?” she said. “You’re a girl. You’ll get married. Your husband will provide. That’s the way it works.”
I looked at my father.
He stared into his coffee, his jaw tight, and said nothing.
My brother Marcus, who was three years older and already attending Villanova, had received everything. Not loans. Not partial help. Full tuition, fully paid. An apartment near campus so he wouldn’t have to deal with dorm life. A Honda Accord so he could commute in comfort.
I got a list of entry-level jobs.
