In the Foster household, there are two types of children: the heir and the afterthought.
My brother Derek is the heir. Four years older, groomed from birth to take over the dealership. Private school education, $68,000 a year, paid in full by Dad. Business degree from a mid-tier university, graduated with a C average, and still got a corner office at Foster Motors before his diploma was framed.
Then there’s me. The daughter. The one who was expected to marry well and stop asking questions.
I graduated summa cum laude from UC Berkeley—top of my class, Dean’s List every semester. My father didn’t come to my graduation. He said he had an “important meeting.” I found out later, through a Facebook post my aunt accidentally liked, that he was playing golf at his country club that same afternoon.
When Derek graduated with his C average, Dad threw a party, hired a band, invited fifty people, gave a speech about the future of Foster Motors.
When I graduated with honors from one of the best public universities in the country, I got a text message.
Congrats. Don’t forget to send thank you cards to your relatives.
That was the first sign I should have paid attention to.
The second sign came with a price tag of $47,000.
$487. That’s how much I pay every month for my student loans. Have been paying since I was twenty-two. Will keep paying until I’m thirty-two, if I’m lucky and nothing goes wrong.
