I could tell my dad was tickled with my first apartment, from the first moment he walked in the door on the sunny Friday I took possession. I think something about its genteel decrepitude charmed his quixotic sense of chivalry. The charm of better days still hung around the crumbling art deco building that contained my tiny, first floor back studio. The closet that once held the fold-down Murphy bed was still there, the ceiling was coved above a wooden picture rail, and the windows had wide sills that could almost double as a window seat. None of these details (or their level of disrepair) escaped my father, but his comments were quiet, as usual. He poked around the tiny bathroom and the minute span of countertop that pretended to be a kitchen, rapped on the plaster walls, and surveyed the broken ball and chain on the door with solemn disgust. Finally we bundled back into the car for the drive home, with me in the passenger seat making lists of tools and gadgets to bring on moving day.

I had ridden a bus into the city alone that morning to sign my lease, as I had ridden it alone to view apartments three months before.

Transferring to different, more expensive school had meant hours of crunching numbers (also alone) when my financial aid arrived. The numbers said I could afford to keep a cheap apartment and eat frugally. They said that I would have to get a job in addition to classes, but that work study, scholarships and my savings would make both ends meet quite nicely that year. My parents said nothing about these details.