I paid the last semester of my youngest child’s college tuition and sat there staring at the confirmation email like it was a finish line.
“That’s it,” I told Sarah. “We did it.”
She smiled like she was proud of me, but something in her eyes didn’t settle, like she’d already rehearsed what she’d say if the floor dropped out.
Two weeks later, I sat in a bland exam room for what I thought was a prostate scare. The doctor glanced at my chart, then at the lab results in the folder, and looked up.