Leo was accepted to four colleges.
He chose one in western New York.
Five hours away.
I hated it immediately.
I did not tell him that.
At least not on the first day.
Evan loved the school.
Engineering, environmental science, and a strong internship program.
Leo wanted to study civil and environmental engineering.
When he told us, Evan tried not to look pleased.
“You know you don’t have to do engineering because I do.”
“I know.”
“Good.”
“I’m doing it because bridges are cool.”
Evan nodded solemnly.
“Correct answer.”
I was less interested in bridges and more interested in the five-hour drive.
“What if you get sick?” I asked.
“There are doctors in New York.”
“What if your car breaks down?”
“I’m not taking a car freshman year.”
“That is worse.”
Leo laughed.
“Grandma.”
“I know. I know.”
Financially, college was easier than I had feared when he was little.
I had saved steadily.
Evan had been contributing since paternity was established.
Leo received merit aid.
We sat down with the actual numbers instead of making emotional promises.
Tuition.
Housing.
Books.
Travel.
Health insurance.
What Leo could reasonably earn during summers without sacrificing academics.
Evan wanted to cover almost everything left after aid.
I objected.
“I have money set aside.”
“So do I.”
“I raised him.”
“I know.”
“You don’t have to compensate for ten years.”
“I’m not.”
He looked at me.
“I am his father. I can contribute because I am his father.”
That argument ended there.
Leo also insisted on contributing some of his summer earnings.
Not enough to jeopardize school.
Enough to feel responsible for his own life.
Move-in day was hot and chaotic.
Rebecca and Nora came.
Evan rented a van.
I packed too many towels.
Leo packed no towels until I pointed out that humans generally require them.
His dorm room was smaller than my first kitchen.
His roommate, Caleb, arrived with two guitars and a mother who brought a label maker.
Within an hour, everything had names on it.
Leo whispered, “Do not get ideas.”
I put the label maker I had been admiring back down.
When it was time to leave, I hugged him too long.
He let me.
Then Evan hugged him.
Nora cried openly.
Rebecca pretended she had something in her eye.
We walked toward the parking lot.
I made it halfway before turning around.
Leo was still standing outside the dorm.
He waved.
I waved back.
Then he went inside.
I cried for almost an hour in the van.
Evan drove.
Nobody told me to stop.
The first semester was not easy.
Leo called often in September.
Less in October.
Then one night in November, he called at 1:13 a.m.
“I think I’m failing calculus.”
I sat up in bed.
“Are you safe?”
“Yes.”
“Have you slept?”
“No.”
“Have you eaten?”
“Kind of.”
“Leo.”
“Fine. Not really.”
I wanted to get in the car.
Instead, I made him drink water while I stayed on the phone.
Then I asked whether he wanted Evan.
“No. He’ll try to solve it.”
“That is possible.”
We agreed Leo would sleep, email the professor in the morning, and go to tutoring.
The next afternoon he called Evan himself.
Evan did not solve it.
He listened.
Then he said, “I failed my first engineering mechanics exam.”
Leo was stunned.
“You?”
“Yes.”
“What did you get?”
“Forty-eight.”
“That’s terrible.”
“Thank you.”
Leo laughed for the first time in two days.
He passed calculus.
Not brilliantly.
He got a B-minus and treated it like a medal.
College changed our family again.
Leo came home for holidays and found the house smaller than he remembered.
He disagreed with me more confidently.
He and Evan started talking about work, politics, and adulthood in ways that did not include me.
At first, that stung.
Then I realized it was supposed to happen.
I had spent his childhood being the answer to almost every question.
Adulthood required me to become one voice among several.
During sophomore year, Leo interned with a municipal engineering firm near Boston.
He stayed with Evan and Rebecca for six weeks because the commute from my house was impractical.
That was the longest he had ever lived under Evan’s roof.
They argued by day four.
About dishes.
Of all things.
Leo left plates in the sink.
Evan asked him not to.
Leo forgot again.
Evan got annoyed.
Leo said, “You’re acting like I’m twelve.”
Evan replied, “Then stop leaving dishes like you’re twelve.”
Rebecca called me laughing.
“Congratulations. They are officially family.”
By the end of the summer, Leo had learned two things.
He liked environmental engineering more than structural design.
And his father was much more irritating when they lived together.
Both discoveries were healthy.
The mythology around Evan faded.
He was no longer the missing father who represented every unanswered question.
He was a real man who snored, forgot grocery items, overexplained road design, and got cranky when towels were left on the bathroom floor.
Leo loved him more after learning that.
Not less.
Click here to continue reading: PART 11: A Medical Emergency During Leo’s Junior Year Showed Us How Much Our Family Had Changed Without Erasing the Past
The Woman at Sarah’s Grave Finally Gave Me the Letter She Had Hidden for Ten Years
Part 10 of 16
