“Why?” His face twists into something ugly. “You were so happy the day that you learned Rachel got into Georgetown. You were dancing around. You wouldn’t have been dancing around if she was going to some third-rate school, and you know it.”
“That’s not fair.” My hands clench into fists. It hurts because it is true. I preached about how it didn’t matter what school you went to, but deep down I felt that same racing pressure. Iwashappy when she got into Georgetown.
“The whole system’s not fair. It’s a dog-eat-dog world out there. You of all people should know that.” He takes a deep breath and exhales, speaking more gently now. “You’re so smart and talented, and you’ve worked so hard, but you topped outin your career because you don’t have the right connections.” His words are daggers, precisely aimed. “I don’t want that for Rachel.”
“You really believe that?” My voice is barely audible now, choked with hurt. “That’s what you think of me?”
“That you’re better than being a freelance events planner with one client? Yes, I do. And that’s a compliment to you. You deserve better. Your trajectory was set when you turned down Amherst and went to a state school.”
“I’ve done pretty well.” I stand straighter, defiance burning through the hurt. Even if a part of me agrees with him, I have my pride.
“But have you donereallywell? Or is it always a hustle? Look around. Money stays with money. Rachel will have a better chance at a good life if she launches from Georgetown. Life has only gotten more intense and less fair since we were young.” His eyes burn with conviction, with a truth he’s apparently believed all along.
“If you have grit and determination, you can make it,” I say. It sounds feeble, even to my own ears.
“Maybe. But Rachel doesn’t have that grit. You worked through high school and had two jobs during college. You were hungry for it. Can you really see Rachel doing that? You and I both know that she doesn’t have that drive. She needs our help.” His words echo in the kitchen, bouncing off the granite countertops.
“Is that what you really think?” says a voice from across the room.
We both turn to see Rachel, tears streaming down her face, standing in the entry to the kitchen.
“Honey,” Miguel says, moving toward her with outstretched hands. “I didn’t mean—”
“Don’t. Just don’t.” She turns and runs out.
Miguel and I follow her, our own fight forgotten in the wake of her distress. But she’s already out the door.
“Rachel!” I call, my voice breaking on her name as she runs to the minivan, gets in the back, and shuts the door. A neighbor walking her dog stops and stares, her expression curious, witnessing our family fracturing before her eyes.
“You satisfied now?” he asks.
I shake my head in disgust. As if this is my fault! But I don’t have time to fight with Miguel. I go out and knock on the window, but Rachel doesn’t open the door.
I open the passenger-side door just as Miguel gets into the driver’s seat, and I lean over the center console.
“Honey, listen. Let’s talk about what you heard back there—”
“How could you?” she yells, tears streaming down her face.
“I didn’t know.”
“And you. Daddy, I trusted you.” She turns from me to Miguel, who has twisted his whole body so he is facing the back seat as well. “I believed it when you said good things about me. And the whole time.” A hiccupping sob erupts from her. “The whole time you thought I was just some loser who couldn’t cut it. I’m not a loser,” she wails before pulling up her knees and burying her face.
“What do we do?” I say quietly to Miguel. “Maybe she shouldn’t go to camp tonight.”
“I can hear you,” she yells. “I’m right here.”
“All right, fine. Maybe we should go back inside and talk.”
“No. Nope. We’re not talking about it.” She shakes her head violently and glares at Miguel. “And you? We’re not talking at all. And if you don’t want to drive me to camp right now, you need to tell me, because I can still catch a ride with Devin. But no, I’m not speaking to either of you right now.”
She fumbles in her backpack for her earbuds, pops them in, and stares out the window. I reach back to pat her leg and she jerks it away. Message received.This isn’t my fault, I want to yell.It’s all your dad.
I look at Miguel, his face unreadable.
“I should be back by midnight,” he says.
I get out of the car and watch as the minivan pulls away, feeling worse and worse as it grows smaller. I could have waited until tomorrow to confront Miguel. I didn’thaveto do it when Rachel was home. And now Rachel will be gone for six weeks, stewing in the knowledge that her parents, her dad at least, didn’t think she had what it takes to get into a good college. Would she ever forgive us?