It is Never Enough

The burgundy carpet cradled my solemn feet.

The brightness of the sun glared through the window pain of the waiting room, bleaching the air with the staleness of warm fabric. I sat waiting for my name to be called as a woman garnering cat eye glasses and pencil skirt sifted me up and down, leaving a quaint smile in her wake.

I looked towards the door, ready to explain myself, to beg for an understanding. I only came to notice the tightness in which my finger clenched each other, trying to keep my self together, my anxiety.

The door creaks. I look up. My turn.

I inch my self off the chair to my feet, swiveling myself into the room. The mustard carpet followed. I sat across from him. A man who looked at me as if her didn't have the time on day, or more so that if her did, he wouldn't waste on me.

"You know why your here. I get straight to the point. Your late again. On your payment."

I sucked in my breathe. Tried to brace for the impact of his annoyance. "I know," I say apologetically. Mercy. Mercy. "But I do have a valid reason. You see, my sister is about to begin to college soon, and well my mother is having-"

"Ms. Jackson. I know. The entire department knows. And we have adjusted your financial aid accordingly. However, here you are," He voice gets louder, not enough to be too drastic, but enough to make my feet curl and my ears echo his words. He composes himself.

"Here you are. Late again. Your family income is enough. Your financial award is enough. What is the issue?"

"Well, sir to be completely honest, it is never enough. My mother already struggles to work two jobs. My father's job pays minimal. And we have family to support out of the country" I say, my voice squeaking on the last word.

"I understand your parent's situation. However, don't you think their daughter's college education may be more important at the present moment than extended fam-"

"My grandfather is not extended family. My mother's nieces and nephews are not extended family. Supporting them takes more than a third of our income. You understand," I plead.

He breaths a shallow breathe. "I understand. My parents also require assistance. I have children too."

"Your family lives here." I say, meaning as a question, but comes out stark and hard.

"Yes, but that's not the point. Ms. Jackson, you have to understand. This institution prides itself in helping every student financially. However, your situation is not an excuse."

How could I explain. Should I start with a question? Should I ask if his parents had an illness that could them, that makes every last breathe a triumph. Should I ask him if he had to leave them to save them, to save his entire family, if it meant never seeing them again. If it meant never having his children see their grandparents? Does he have to leave this job to go to another? Does he carry the weight of his family on his backside? Does he yell at his children to understand? "I can't afford it. You know what I go through for you. I'm tired. I won't say it again." Does he watch his kids stomp away in anger and tears and frustration feeling sorry, sorry for not working enough, for resting too much, for walking too slow, for not have the energy to do more. Should I break down in tears, step into my mother's body, and translate what 30 years of non-stop, restless laboring can do to a person, a mother, to a family.

But I can't. I look at the ball of fingers I call hands resting my lap. I straighten. I compose.

"I understand."

"Good," he says as his lips contort to a look of content while teetering the line between a smile and a smirk. I choose the latter.

I swivel out of my chair and walk out, leaving my footprints in the burgundy carpet.