#Babymaker (Baby Crazy 2)

“Can this be right?” I whispered to myself, staring at the form. My fingers trembled as I looked over the numbers, tears starting to well in my eyes. “Can’t be. They must have made a mistake.”

My mom peered over my shoulder, and immediately, she realized what had happened.

“Don’t worry, we’ll go to the financial aid office in person tomorrow,” she said firmly. “They must have sent this letter to the wrong person. This isn’t yours.”

But my eyes flickered to the heading and I saw that the letter was indeed addressed to me. It even had my new student ID number as a tracking confirmation. There had been no mistake. Hudson Unviersity was offering me a measly five thousand in scholarships to attend. How could that be possible? Tuition at Hudson was around fifty thousand a year, and there was no way my parents could fill the forty-five thousand dollar gap.

But my mom is a determined soul, and the next day we drove all the way to the city to meet with a financial aid counselor.

“You have to give my daughter more,” Elaine demanded, eyes fierce. “Connie’s worked so hard and your school is her first choice. Five thousand isn’t enough.”

The adviser hemmed and hawed, filling the air with a lot of nothing. But finally after ten minutes of waffling, she excused herself to talk with her manager. And lo and behold, fifteen minutes later she came back with a revised financial aid letter.

“Hudson is pleased to offer you twenty-five thousand in scholarships,” she announced, placing the document on the table as if it were a cherished scroll. “We’d love to have you join us in the fall Connie.”

My mouth opened and closed as I turned desperate eyes to my mom because twenty-five wasn’t enough either. That still left a giant gap of twenty-five thousand, and there was no way we could make that up with my parents’ working class wages.

But my mom is a determined lady who grew up in the age of women’s lib, and she nodded stiffly.

“We’ll find a way,” she said, sweeping out of the office like a queen. “Connie is going to come here even if I have to get a second job to support her.”

I swallowed hard. I didn’t want my parents to go through this. I didn’t want them to break their backs so that I could go to some fancy private school. Nor did I want them to take out a second mortgage or sell one of the cars to free up cash. So I shook my head.

“No Ma,” was my soft entreaty. “It’s not necessary. I can take classes at Greenwood Community for two years and then see what happens. It’s no big deal.”

“No,” said Elaine flatly. “Absolutely not. You worked hard for this and Daddy and I are going to find some way.”

There was no point in arguing with her, so I let it drop. But Elaine was right. Come fall, I found myself ensconced in a tiny dorm room with a new comforter, a new laptop, and student loans up the wazoo. But Elaine and Henry assured me this was the right choice.

“You’ll be okay,” ho-hummed my dad. “Once you come out with a degree, the doors will be wide open. You’ll be able to land any job you want and pay back those loans in no time.”

My mom nodded her head in agreement.

“A college degree is the new ticket to success,” she said firmly. “And I won’t have my daughter go without.”

But the thing is that after I graduated, I couldn’t find a good job. Instead, I worked retail at a big department store while sending out hundreds, if not thousands of resumes. Each time I put a stamp on an envelope, my heart would leap with hope. But then each time I got another rejection letter in the mail, my soul plummeted and bitterness set in.

So now I’m living in a tiny apartment where the tub’s in the kitchen. It’s a fifth floor walk-up, and there’s no super so we have to haul the trash and recycling ourselves. I keep telling myself that it’s only for the time being and that I’ll find something better in the next couple months, but instead, all I’ve been able to land is a secretary job with a small accounting outfit. It doesn’t pay well, and cutting corners is the only way to survive.

So to be in Dr. Roman’s luxurious office took my breath away. The oiled leather seats beckoned and I sank into one, the air whooshing out of my lungs. The smell of expensive furniture filled my nostrils, and I relaxed a bit, shooting a shy smile his way.

He smiled back.

“So what can I help you with, Connie? Can I call you Connie? Or should I call you Constance?”

I smiled.

“Connie’s fine,” was my murmur. “No one calls me Constance.”