GOLDA
The emailfrom the rink sits in my inbox like a bill I can’t afford to pay.
Congratulations! Your children have been accepted into our advanced programs. Tyson - Youth Hockey Development. Blythe - Figure Skating Fundamentals. New session begins Saturday.
I scroll down to the fee schedule and I almost gasp at the amount. Youth hockey development: $485 per month, plus equipment. Figure skating fundamentals: $340 per month, plus lessons, plus costumes for recitals I’ll have to pretend I can afford.
Eight hundred and twenty-five dollars a month. Plus equipment. Plus gas driving to extra practices and weekend games.
I close my laptop and lean back in my kitchen chair, attempting to rearrange the numbers in my head like some cruel math problem. The voice-over work is steady but notspectacular. The audiobook contracts pay well when I can get them, but Carol at Lakeshore Publishing has been mysteriously silent about the romance series she dangled in front of me last month.
“Mom, did you see the flyer?” Tyson appears in the doorway, still in his pajamas but clutching the flyer for the hockey league that he’s been holding onto since last Saturdays class. “From the rink? About youth hockey?”
My chest tightens at the hope in his voice. Three months of learn-to-skate lessons have transformed my quiet, careful son into someone who talks about crossovers and defensive positioning like he’s been playing hockey his whole life.
“I saw it, buddy.”
“Coach Dex said I was ready. He said I have really good hockey sense.” Tyson sits down across from me, feet swinging under the chair. “That’s good, right? Hockey sense?”
“That’s very good.”
“So can I do it? Please?”
The please gets me every time. Not the whining, demanding please of a kid who’s used to getting what he wants, but the careful, hopeful please of a child who’s learned not to ask for too much.
“It’s a lot of money, Ty.”
His face falls slightly, but he nods like he understands. Which makes it worse, somehow. “How much money?”
I could lie. Tell him it’s not about the money, that I need to think about schedules or commitments or any of the other excuses parents use when they can’t afford their kids’ dreams.
“About five hundred dollars a month.”
He’s quiet for a moment, processing this information with the seriousness of someone who’s old enough to understand that money is finite. “That’s a lot.”
“It is.”
“More than groceries?”
“About the same as groceries.”
He nods again, and I can practically see him weighing whether hockey is worth the same as food. The fact that he’s even considering it makes my heart break a little.
“What about Blythe’s skating?”
“That costs money too.”
“Oh.” His shoulders slump. “So we can’t do it.”
I’m about to explain that we’ll figure something out, that maybe I can pick up more commercial work, when my phone buzzes against the table. Evan’s contact photo fills the screen—the last family picture we took before everything fell apart, when we were still pretending smiles came naturally.
Need to discuss the kids’ expenses. Call me.
I flip the phone face down, but it immediately starts buzzing again.
“Is that Dad?” Tyson asks.
“Yes, but?—”
