The paint was peeling in the bathroom, the kitchen had exactly four cabinets, and the bedroom window had a crack that we covered with duct tape every winter. But back then, it felt like a palace because we were together. We were in love, and we believed in the future.
Brandon was twenty-two, I was twenty, and we’d just gotten married at the courthouse with Maggie and Brandon’s cousin as witnesses. We couldn’t afford a real wedding. We couldn’t afford much of anything, really.
Brandon had just been accepted into medical school, his dream since he was a kid. But medical school cost money—lots of money. More money than either of us had ever seen.
I was in my sophomore year of college, studying communications. I loved my classes; I loved learning. But one night, about two months after Brandon started medical school, we sat at our tiny kitchen table with bills spread out in front of us.
We both knew something had to change.