The death of my best friend, who had just finished her second year at the University of Texas, brought me to tears.
It was also a moment of profound clarity.
She had just given birth to her second child.
I had been the same age.
For years, she had told me, I would always love you.
But I had never loved her like that.
And then, just as I was about to cry, I remembered what she had said.
I told her: I love you so much.
She smiled and shook her head.
Then she cried harder, too.
I was devastated.
I felt guilty.
I tried to hide the emotion.
She never told me that.
I didn’t want to believe that she was telling the truth.
But in that moment, I knew I could trust her.
And so I did.
We had bonded in a place where we had a deep, shared love for each other, and we were also deeply connected in the community.
She was one of the most caring, thoughtful, and generous people I had ever known.
We talked about our future together.
She knew I had to do my best for her, even if it meant doing something stupid like stealing a car.
I remember she asked me why I had wanted to go to Texas for so long, and I told him I had come to the U.S. to live and raise my daughter, and that Texas was just the best place for her.
But she told me I needed to understand.
I needed time to think.
I asked her why she had been a good teacher.
And she told us about the things she learned as a student, the things that she wanted to say to her daughter when she was older.
She said I needed someone to talk to about how I felt, how I could help her.
She told me she wanted someone to hear her.
So I decided to go back to Texas, and she told my husband that if we could get a job together, he should come too.
We met him at a coffee shop, and he was in tears.
We drove back to Austin, where we both had jobs, and they both told me about their feelings.
And my husband told me: It’s over.
I know we will be good parents.
But my heart ached for her and my mind was racing with questions about the future.
And it all started to make sense.
For me, my first year of teaching, I had had to work a lot.
My teaching had been tough, and even in my second year, I struggled with being a part of my family.
I couldn’t sit at home and teach her, and it was difficult for her to be alone.
We were struggling with finding our voice and making our mark on the world.
And I knew that I had a lot to teach her.
I realized that it was in our children’s future that we had most to teach them.
And we could make a difference.
As I drove to the grocery store, I could tell she was worried about me.
We spent the next few weeks talking about her new job and about the job that would be in front of her.
It took her a long time to see that I was really trying to do something for her — to get her on a course of action that would benefit her as well as her child.
We also talked about my own struggles.
I struggled to get my teaching job.
I worked in the mornings, and when I got home at night, I was tired and depressed.
I thought, What if I just didn’t go to work?
How could I be a good parent?
My husband and I agreed to meet with her to figure out a way to make it work.
He was worried, but I told them I had everything I needed.
I would do anything I had got to do to help.
The first few weeks of my new job were a whirlwind of excitement and excitement, but as I got more comfortable with my new role and her, I felt like it was time to give up.
I took a month off work and moved to a more permanent, safer space, to work in a bigger office.
But things didn’t work out well.
I became so overwhelmed and frustrated that I would take days off from my teaching and never come back.
I began to wonder if I was doing the right thing by my new family.
The work environment was also tough, but the work was good.
I made friends.
We started to feel more connected to each other.
And when she got older, she started to take the work seriously.
And the more she took care of me, the more I became confident in the job I was getting.
I finally got the job.
But as we got to know each other better, things started to change.
It felt like I was no longer in charge of her life. It