Margaret Walks Across the High School Stage on a Warm June Morning
“Let me carry that,” he said, reaching for the leather folder.
He set the diploma on the dining table, positioning it right in the center of the dark oak wood.
“We have forty-one thousand dollars in the savings account, Margaret,” he said, his back still turned to me.
He was referring to the college fund we had started when Olivia was three.
“I know,” I said, sitting down at the table.
“It shouldn’t just sit there,” Brian said, turning around to face me.
He sat in the chair opposite mine and rubbed his temples with both hands.
“We could help the other kids,” he said.
“A scholarship,” I said.
“For students who want to study music or art,” he said, his voice dropping.
“We can call it the Olivia Memorial Scholarship,” I said.
Brian nodded, his fingers tapping a quiet rhythm on the tabletop.
“Let’s go see Arthur,” he said, standing up and reaching for his keys.
Arthur’s office was cool, the blinds drawn against the five o’clock sun.
Arthur sat behind his mahogany desk, a thick manila folder resting between his hands.
