“Nothing,” she said, far too innocently. He knew exactly what she meant. Sarah’s life changed slowly alongside his. St.
Agnes began offering tuition assistance for patient-care technicians seeking nursing credentials. For years Sarah had told herself she was too old, too tired, or too financially exposed to go back to school. Watching Eli step repeatedly into rooms where he felt underprepared made those explanations sound thinner. At thirty-eight, she enrolled in two prerequisite courses at the community college.
The schedule was brutal. She worked, studied, drove, cooked, worried, and occasionally fell asleep with anatomy flash cards on her chest. Eli learned to make grilled cheese and scrambled eggs without creating a kitchen incident. They studied at the same table some nights, his theory worksheets beside her biology notes.
The weighted keyboard stood six feet away, headphones plugged in after nine. One evening Eli looked up from harmonic analysis and said, “You know you’re kind of chasing a big dream.” Sarah threw an eraser at him. He ducked, laughing.
The phrase had become family shorthand by then, no longer attached mainly to the adults at the station. It meant the danger of dismissing something before effort had a chance to make it real. Sarah used it on herself when coursework felt absurdly difficult. Eli used it when friends mocked his Saturday theory class.
Mrs. Alvarez used it sarcastically whenever he tried to avoid metronome practice. The public-piano video eventually became almost embarrassing to Eli. At thirteen, he watched it for the first time in two years and cringed at his haircut, his hoodie, and the dramatic captions strangers had added.
“I wasn’t even that good,” he said. Sarah, sitting beside him on the sofa, turned slowly. “You were ten.” “I rushed.”
“You were ten.” “The Mozart’s uneven.” “You. Were. Ten.”