“Grocery store.”
“Customer service?”
“Since I was twelve.”
She laughed.
“When can you start?”
“Today.”
She handed me an apron.
College began eight months later.
My first apartment was technically a rented room in an old house six blocks from campus.
The radiator hissed but provided very little actual heat.
The window rattled in wind.
The floor tilted enough that pens rolled toward the wall if I dropped them.
I loved it.
Because the rent receipt had my name on it.
I worked mornings at a campus café and late shifts at the library.
Some nights, I finished shelving books at two and walked home through snow so cold my eyelashes felt stiff.
I learned which grocery store marked down bread after nine.
I learned that instant noodles tasted better if you added an egg.
I learned that exhaustion can become routine if you stop making it personal.
Carter lived across campus in a newer residence hall.
Private bedroom.
Fitness center.
Dining credits.
When he called, he often talked about how busy he was.
“Business classes are brutal.”
I would be sitting behind the library circulation desk at midnight.
“I’m sure.”
“You should come see my place.”
“Maybe.”
“They have heated bathroom floors.”
“I remember.”
He never asked where I lived.
That bothered me less with time.
The difficult call came during my first winter.
I had worked twenty-eight hours that week on top of classes.
A textbook bill had eaten most of my savings.
I called home.
Mom answered.
“Everything okay?”
“I’m short on rent.”
Silence.
“How short?”
“Three hundred.”
Another pause.
Then:
“Delilah, we’ve already done what we can.”
I looked around the empty library.
Rows of books disappeared into shadow.
“What have you done?”
Her voice tightened.
“We raised you. We helped you get into college.”
“You didn’t pay the application fee.”
“That’s not the point.”
Behind her, I heard television.
Then Carter laughing.
He was home.
Mom lowered her voice.
“You’re on your own now.”
I closed my eyes.
“Okay.”
“Don’t be dramatic.”
“I said okay.”
After we hung up, I worked an extra weekend shift.
Rent got paid.
Something else disappeared.
Expectation.
By my second year, that loss felt more like freedom.
Environmental studies had started as the major I chose because I cared about cities, waste, water, and the strange question of why some neighborhoods received clean parks and organized recycling while others received overflowing dumpsters.
Then I met Professor Megan Lu.
She taught Urban Environmental Systems.
Small woman.
Fast walker.
Never used ten words when four would do.
One morning, she announced she would read several strong essays from our latest assignment.
My stomach dropped when she said my name.
She read my paper on neighborhood composting systems.
Not glamorous.
Not revolutionary.
Practical.
When she finished, several students turned toward me.
Professor Lu closed the folder.
“This is useful because it asks what can actually be implemented, not what looks impressive in a presentation.”