We filled out the financial aid forms together at the kitchen table. Willa applied for every scholarship she could find. She wrote essays until two in the morning. I picked up two more cleaning jobs on Saturdays. I stopped buying coffee at the gas station. I told myself we’d figure
it out. Loans. Grants. Something.
I didn’t tell Mrs. Whitaker any of this. It wasn’t her business. I was her cleaner.
But she asked about Willa every Thursday. And one Thursday, in September of Willa’s senior year,
she asked me where Willa was applying to college.
I told her.
“Architecture,” Mrs. Whitaker said. She nodded slowly. “Of course. The windows.”
“The windows,” I agreed.
