“Mom, we don’t have to stay long,” Elias murmured.
“I know,” I said. “Just a bit for your cousin.”
My niece, Emily, fluttered past us in her Stanford sweatshirt, a cluster of friends trailing behind her. There was a banner with her photo—CONGRATS EMILY!—and a gift table sagging under envelopes. I was proud of her, truly. But as I watched Elias duck his head, a thought wouldn’t let go: He’s just as smart. Maybe smarter.Elias had gotten into three great universities while working part-time at Target and helping me care for my mother during chemo. No private tutors. No SAT prep courses. Just his brain and his stubbornness.
I watched my father slosh beer as he went on about “good decisions” and “family legacy.” My siblings nodded like a choir. I saw my sister hand Emily a thick envelope—the college fund contribution my parents had promised all the grandchildren.
I swallowed and stepped closer to my father.
“Dad,” I said, trying to sound casual. “Since we’re talking about the future—does Elias get a piece of the college fund too?”Our parents had always called it a fund for “the grandchildren.” Plural. Four grandchildren. Emily, her brother Marcus, my brother’s daughter Sophia, and Elias.
