“Maybe you can wait till next year,” my dad said that day, looking pained as they stood in the middle of it all, the campus right in front of them but also somehow out of reach. “We just can’t afford it right now.”
“We could if you—”
“What? Got a real job?”
“I was going to say a better-paying job,” she told him. “Just for a year. Just while I do this program. Then I’ll be more qualified, which means I can get more funding, expand the center. Maybe we could even work on it together.”
“Why is it that your causes are always more important than mine?” my dad asked, throwing his hands up in frustration.
“Because I’m trying to savechildren.”
He raised his eyebrows. “And I’m only trying to save trees.”
“Well,” she said with a shrug.
The fight followed us back through the campus, into the car, and all the way home. But it’s hard to remember what happened after that. My mom got sick just a few months later, so she never made it to grad school after all. And my dad had to get a better job anyway, to cover her medical expenses. When his car was struck by a drunk driver a year after she died, he was still passionate about saving the trees. But he was spending his days working at a call center where he answered people’s questions about their malfunctioning coffeemakers.
All this time, I thought she’d missed out on Stanford because she got cancer—not because of anything as ordinary as finances, as mundane as a disagreement with my dad. And something about this shakes me.
Teddy bumps his knee against mine. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“Al,” he says, and for a moment, all I can think is:Leo.I wish Leo were here so I could tell him this story and not have to explain what it means. Leo would understand in an instant, and would know exactly the right things to say.
But then I look at Teddy, the way he’s watching me, his eyes full of concern, and I remember what he said that night in his room:You go to Leo when you want to remember. You come to me when you want to forget.
Right now, Teddy is the one here, but I don’t want to forget. Not this. So I take a deep breath. And then I tell him.
He listens quietly as I explain what happened—what I didn’t until this very minute remember had happened—and when I’m finished, I expect him to say something likewoworohor maybe justI’m sorry, Al.
But instead he says, “So they weren’t perfect.”
I blink at him. “What?”
“They were just people,” he says, tilting his head to look at me sideways. “Really good people, but still just people.”
“I know that,” I say, but even as I do, I realize I’m not so sure. I’m still reeling from the force of this memory, wondering what else I’m not remembering, what else I might’ve missed.
“I think,” he says slowly, cautiously, “that you sometimes see your parents as these completely selfless martyrs. You have them up on this impossible pedestal, and it’s not really fair—to them or you. I know they did a lot to make the world a better place, which is really cool…”
I lift my chin, waiting for him to continue.
“But they also did those things because it was their job. Even people who are working to save the world are also still working for a paycheck. And at the end of the day, they’re still just people.”
I know he’s right. They weren’t perfect. They were just like anyone else. They fought and failed and disappointed each other. They were frustrated and tired. They snapped and groaned and muttered.
But they also laughed and teased and joked. They felt deeply and cared hugely. They tried to leave their mark on the world, with no idea they’d have so little time to do it. And they loved me. They loved me so much.
They were just people.
But they were also my parents.
“Yeah,” I say to Teddy. “But they were pretty amazing people.”
He gives me a long look. “Do you know how many people there are in the world who would’ve turned down tens of millions of dollars?”
I shake my head.
