Forty-five

She got the letter and the letter said no. She hadn't foreseen this. This was not an option, this was not a thing that was supposed to happen. Letters didn't say no, letters said yes, that was their job. So when it, this letter, this thing, said no, the tears would not stop.

Her father got home five hours later. Five hours of soaking pillows and snotty nostrils, runny mascara and the absence of lunch. He knocked on her door and, through some strength still inside her, she said "C-c-c-c-come i-i-in."

"I heard you got some bad news today."

The dam broke. "I didn't g-g-g-get in! My life is over! I d-d-don't know what I'm going t-to do with my life!"

He walked (and she only knew this from the sound of his loafers, for her head was buried deep in the pillow) to the window. She looked up at him, his back to her, arms stretch out on the frame, looking out at the world and larger than life. "I'm forty-five years old," he told her, "and I still don't know what I'm going to do with my life."

And with that he walked out of the bedroom, and she was ready for dinner.