“I’m aware.”
“Then why would you spend that kind of money getting a degree?”
“Because I want one.”
David frowned.
“But what are you going to do with it? You’re not starting a new career.”
His words stung more than I expected.
I looked around the room that had felt too large ever since Margaret’s death.
For forty-two years, she had filled our home with noise.
She sang while cooking.
She called questions to me from other rooms.
She laughed loudly enough to make strangers turn around in restaurants.
She complained that I never replaced anything until it was practically falling apart.
And when she was gone, the silence that replaced her felt endless.
Some mornings, I would wake before sunrise, lie in bed, and wonder what exactly I was supposed to do with the day ahead.
Eat breakfast.
Read the paper.
Fix something that did not really need fixing.
Watch television.
Go to bed.
Repeat.
Then, one afternoon, I saw an advertisement for adult university enrollment.
At first, I laughed.
Me? Sitting in a classroom again?
Ridiculous.
But I kept thinking about it.
Then I started looking at programs.
I read course descriptions.
I imagined lectures, books, assignments, discussions.
And for the first time since losing Margaret, tomorrow seemed interesting.
That feeling alone was worth something.
“I don’t need the degree for a job,” I told my sons. “I want to learn.”
Ryan’s expression hardened.
“And you’re paying for this with your retirement savings?”
“My retirement savings.”
“Dad, that money is important.”
“It certainly is.”
“You worked your whole life for it.”
“Exactly.”
David rubbed his forehead.
“So you’re going to spend thousands of dollars sitting in classrooms with kids young enough to be your grandchildren?”
The excitement inside me began to drain away.
“Spend it? Or waste it?”
Neither answered immediately.
That silence told me more than their words.
