And that’s when we went back. Back to the beginning. Back to when Brandon and I were different people.
Back to when we were young and in love and poor, living in that tiny apartment with dreams bigger than our bank account. Eight years ago, Brandon and I lived in a one-bedroom apartment that was so small you could touch both walls if you stretched your arms out in the hallway.
The paint was peeling in the bathroom, the kitchen had exactly four cabinets, and the bedroom window had a crack that we covered with duct tape every winter. But back then, it felt like a palace because we were together. We were in love, and we believed in the future.
Brandon was twenty-two, I was twenty, and we’d just gotten married at the courthouse with Maggie and Brandon’s cousin as witnesses. We couldn’t afford a real wedding. We couldn’t afford much of anything, really.
Brandon had just been accepted into medical school, his dream since he was a kid. But medical school cost money—lots of money. More money than either of us had ever seen.
I was in my sophomore year of college, studying communications. I loved my classes; I loved learning. But one night, about two months after Brandon started medical school, we sat at our tiny kitchen table with bills spread out in front of us.
We both knew something had to change.
«Grace,» Brandon said, running his hands through his hair the way he always did when he was stressed. «I don’t know how we’re going to make this work. Tuition is due in three weeks, and even with my student loans, we’re short. And we still have to pay rent, electricity, food.»
I looked at the numbers. I’d been looking at them for hours. Brandon’s part-time job at the campus library paid almost nothing. My part-time work at the supermarket wasn’t much better. His student loans covered tuition but barely touched living expenses. We were drowning, and we hadn’t even gotten to the deep water yet.
«What if I took a year off school?» I said quietly.
Brandon looked up at me, his eyes tired. «What?»
«Just one year. Maybe two,» I suggested. «I could work full-time, maybe get a second job. Once you finish medical school and start your residency, I can go back.»
«Grace, no. I can’t ask you to do that.»