At first, it didn't matter.
College, however, has a knack for sharpening our awareness of what we lack.
"Grandpa, can I have these jeans?" I asked one afternoon in eighth grade, holding up a glossy advertisement for a store where all the girls in my class shopped. "Everyone has them."
He barely glanced at the page before gently shaking his head. "We can't afford it, my boy."
This phrase has become a refrain in our family.
"Can I get a newer phone? Mine keeps turning off."
"We can't afford that, my boy."
"Can I join the trip during spring break? It's only three hundred dollars."
"We cannot afford it."
Every time he said it, something inside me tightened.
At school, my friends compared their latest gadgets and weekend plans. They posted photos of beach vacations and concerts. I smiled and pretended it didn't bother me, but at night I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, hot tears streaming down my hair.
I hated myself for feeling so much resentment. After everything he had done for me, how could I have been so selfish?
And yet, the anger persisted.
If I could be anything I wanted, why did I feel like the world was already closed to me? Dreams seemed priceless. Higher education seemed unattainable. Even the smallest things seemed out of reach.
When I arrived at high school, I had completely stopped asking for anything.
Then, during my last year of high school, Grandpa got sick.
At first, the signs were subtle: shortness of breath, a persistent cough, and fatigue that he simply attributed to age. Within a few months, he struggled to climb stairs. Halfway up, he would stop, gripping the handrail and breathing heavily.
"I'm fine," he insisted every time I approached. "Just a cold that won't go away."
I didn't believe him.
The doctor's visits became more frequent. Bottles of medication began to pile up on the kitchen counter. The medical jargon was complicated, but the reality was simple: his heart was failing him.
We couldn't afford a nurse or home care. Of course not. We couldn't afford anything.
So I took care of him.
I juggled my last semester of high school with cooking, cleaning, helping with toileting, and preparing her medication. I did my homework at the kitchen table, while remaining attentive to the sound of her breathing from the living room armchair.
