The first year passed without becoming easier, though it became different.
One application came from a sophomore named Lena.
I stopped visiting Cara’s grave every week. I started reviewing applications for the fund.
Most came from students who needed rent, transportation, medication, or one quiet night in a hotel away from someone unsafe who was waiting at home.
One application came from a sophomore named Lena.
She was pregnant, frightened, and considering leaving school because her family had threatened to cut her off.
A year after Cara’s death, I returned to the greenhouse carrying the paperwork.
Her form contained no dramatic language. Just numbers, appointment dates, and one sentence under additional information:
I do not know who I can tell safely.
The committee approved her request.
A year after Cara’s death, I returned to the greenhouse carrying the paperwork.
Lena waited on the bench near the tomato plants, twisting a bracelet around her wrist.
Lena looked up when I sat beside her.
Mara had offered to come, but I went alone.
Some moments did not need witnesses.
Lena looked up when I sat beside her.
“Am I in trouble?”
“No.”
I remembered Cara at twenty, holding a dish towel and trying to ask me about children.
“Did I fill something out wrong?”
“No.”
Her hands kept moving.
I remembered Cara at twenty, holding a dish towel and trying to ask me about children without revealing why the answer mattered so much.
I only said quietly what someone should have told her years ago.
I handed Lena the approved paperwork.
She read it, then covered her mouth. Her eyes filled, but she did not cry.
I gave no advice.
I did not mention Cara.
I only said quietly what someone should have told her years ago.
“You don’t have to decide everything by yourself.”
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