When Chloe got accepted into a nursing program in London, I cried so hard I scared her.
She laughed and hugged me. “Mom, this is good crying.”
“It is,” I said, wiping my face. “I just can’t believe we did it.”
“We did it,” she corrected softly. “Not just me.”
I emptied my savings to send her there.
Every cent I had. The money I kept for emergencies. The little amount I had hidden in coffee tins, inside old coat pockets, and at the back of my dresser drawer. Gone. Happily gone.
At first, she called me every night.
She cried because she missed home. She hated the cold. She hated the tiny flat she shared with two other girls. She hated the food in the cafeteria. She hated the long train rides and the way London made her feel both invisible and exposed.
