Chapter 13 - What Tyler’s Education Really Cost
I waited until Sunday to call Tyler.
I hated that conversation before it began.
He answered from a hardware store.
“I’m trying to find a faucet cartridge, which apparently requires an engineering degree.”
“I need to tell you something.”
His joking stopped.
“Okay.”
“Can you go somewhere private?”
Ten minutes later, he called from his car.
I told him about the account.
I told him Grandma had funded it.
I told him twelve thousand dollars had gone toward his tuition.
He said nothing.
Then I heard him breathe out.
“No.”
“I saw the statements.”
“No, I mean Dad told me Grandma gave us both money.”
“She did.”
“He said mine ran out after freshman year.”
“Apparently mine ran out during your freshman year.”
Tyler swore.
I let him.
“This is why Mom wanted copies of old records,” he said.
“She didn’t know about this account.”
“Does Jess know?”
“Not from me.”
“I need to tell her.”
“You don’t have to do anything right now.”
“Yes, I do.”
His voice cracked.
“I spent years acting like you were dramatic about college. I told myself you had made different choices. Meanwhile, I was literally spending money Grandma put aside for you.”
“You didn’t know.”
“I benefited.”
“Those are different things.”
He was quiet.
A year earlier, Tyler might have argued with that because guilt can feel strangely noble. Sometimes punishing yourself is easier than deciding what responsibility actually belongs to you.
“I want to pay you back,” he said.
“No.”
“Aaron.”
“No.”
“It was my tuition.”
“It was Dad’s decision.”
“I still got the benefit.”
“And you were eighteen years old. Did you manage the accounts?”
“No.”
“Did you ask him to take money from me?”
“No.”
“Then don’t turn his decision into another thing between us.”
He started to answer.
I stopped him.
“I mean it.”
That was when Tyler began crying.
Not dramatically.
Just one broken breath followed by silence.
“I hate how much of our relationship was built on things we didn’t know,” he said.
“So do I.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know.”
“Are you suing him?”
The word sounded enormous.
“I don’t know.”
“Would you?”
“I said I don’t know.”
He apologized.
I rubbed my forehead.
“I’m angry enough to want consequences. I’m not sure what kind.”
“I’ll support whatever you decide.”
“That can’t mean blindly.”
“Then I’ll support your right to decide.”
That sounded better.
When we hung up, Leah was watering plants on the balcony.
I told her Tyler wanted to repay me.
“What did you say?”
“No.”
“Do you want the money back?”
That question bothered me.
Not because she shouldn’t have asked.
Because I didn’t know.
Eighteen thousand dollars at eighteen would have changed my life.
Maybe I would have worked one job instead of two.
Maybe I would have slept more.
Maybe I would have graduated with less debt.
Maybe I would have spent spring break with friends instead of serving burgers to people who complained that the fries took too long.
Money had shaped those years.
Pretending otherwise would be dishonest.
But I also didn’t want a check to become a fake time machine.
“No amount gives me those years back,” I said.
Leah put down the watering can.
“That doesn’t mean repayment is meaningless.”
“I know.”
“It also doesn’t mean you have to decide today.”
I looked through the balcony railing at the street below.
A father was teaching a little girl to ride a bicycle.
He ran beside her with one hand under the seat until she shouted at him to let go.
He did.
She made it half a block before wobbling into the grass.
Both of them laughed.
My phone buzzed.
A message from Dad.
I found the bank’s archived records. I requested everything. I will send them to you unopened when they arrive.
Another message followed.
There may be one more transfer I need to explain.
I stared at the screen.
Leah read my expression.
“What?”
I handed her the phone.
She looked at me.
“How many things can possibly be inside one college account?”
I didn’t answer.
May you like
Dad had already told me about eighteen thousand dollars.
Apparently, even that wasn’t the full number.
