“It is,” he replied, resolute. His faith was contagious. I felt a spark ignite in my chest. So I worked harder than ever, rising before dawn, studying after midnight, cramming on buses, squeezing in work between shifts. Nothing could stop me.
Weeks passed and I made finalist—then I won. The email came with the sweet taste of victory but also an unexpected twist—Ashford Heights was on the transfer list. The same place my father had deemed unworthy of my investment.
I transferred quietly, my heart racing as I walked the polished paths of Ashford Heights, the reality of it all. Sadie’s photos had captured its beauty—perfect, poised, effortlessly vibrant. But this time, it was my turn to make a mark.
Confrontation
It wasn’t long before Sadie found me in the library, the scent of old books and fresh coffee swirling around us. “How are you here?” she exclaimed, her eyes wide. She was still the same—exuberant, bright.
“I transferred,” I replied casually, though my pulse quickened.
“They didn’t tell me.” Her voice dropped, uncertainty creeping in.
“They don’t know,” I said, shrugging. It felt like I was keeping a secret from her, but it was my victory. The silence stretched between us, filled with unsaid words.
“How are you paying?” she finally asked, her expression cautious.
“Scholarship.”
That was enough to spark her excitement. My phone buzzed furiously with calls after that. My father finally reached me, his voice pitched high with surprise. “You’re at Ashford?”
“Yes.”
“You didn’t tell us.”
“I didn’t think it mattered.”
Pause. I could hear him breathe, the tension thickening the air. “Of course it matters.”
“Does it?” I shot back. “Because I remember what you said.”
Silence. I could almost feel his thoughts running in circles.
“How are you paying?” he finally asked again.
