You are loved.
Like, a ridiculous
amount.
Even when Dad makes it
sound like a budget meeting.
An unnecessarily pink card.
A very necessary amount of love.
First, the part
I want you to hear.
Amy and CC, I don’t want the loud part of tonight to be what you remember. I’m sorry my care got lost in the conversation.
CC, you’re 18. Four weeks into a new city, honors classes, pre-med, new friends, and figuring out where lunch happens. That is a lot of new.
You’re brilliant. You also haven’t had to manage all this before. Both things can be true.
You don’t have to be good at everything
to be completely taken care of.
I want you eating, happy, and getting to have your life. Apparently that life includes curing perimenopause. A modest little freshman ambition.
What I’ve been
doing since January.
Putting things in place so you can get on with college. BadgerPay is set up and the first installment is paid. Tuition, housing, the meal plan, and sorority dues are ours to handle.
We did your $5,500 federal loan paperwork together in August, including Entrance Counseling and the MPN. I added you to my 22-year-old Amex to help you get started with credit.
There’s $500 into Chase each month, September through May. Roughly two thirds is your graduation money and one third is ours, blended into one deposit to keep it simple. Your uncle’s $300 went onto Wiscard.
Every bit of this was meant
to make your life easier.
If the systems are confusing, we’ll make them simpler together. That part is on me, too.
September was
always for watching.
I wrote it in August: the budget was a draft. The numbers were guesses. You were supposed to live your life so we could learn what it costs.
Your spending was reasonable. Target runs, a concert, about $157 in surprise sorority costs, $100 fronted for roommates’ tickets. That’s a life we’re learning to plan for.
We’ll collect what friends owe you and make room for the things we didn’t anticipate. At the end of each month, we look at actual spending together and adjust.
If $500 is the wrong number,
we change the number.
This was never about $300 or $500. I want you to learn while the stakes are snacks and concert tickets, with us right here to help. Long before the stakes are rent.
Your lunch does not
require a dissertation.
Meal swipes. Flex. Wiscard money. Debit. Four payment systems for a sandwich is frankly unhinged.
You’ve been using about 2–7 of your 14 weekly swipes. If the dining hall makes you feel sick, we find food somewhere that works for you. You do not need to eat there to make the math look better.
I researched meal exchanges because there are ways to use the plan beyond the dining hall, including options at places you already go. Dad’s new specialty: advanced sandwich logistics.
Coffee-shop food and unused meals tell us we need an easier setup. We’ll make a tiny phone note about how to pay, check balances twice a week, and keep talking.
Eat first. We’ll figure it out.
That is the entire royal decree.
You can always
tell us.
Always.
When money gets tight, say it early.
You don’t have to have a solution first.
There is nothing you could tell us about money that would make you a problem. You never have to earn help by getting everything right.
I will never let you go without.
I want to help you learn something lasting.
And I want you to feel loved while you learn it.
All my love,
Dad / Chris