Molly stares at the community college brochure like it might bite her.

“I’m not a school person,” she says quickly. “I was a… trust fund, chaos, glitter-in-my-hair person.”

You sit beside her at the kitchen table, nudging the brochure closer. “You’re also curious. Creative. And way smarter than you pretend.”

She scoffs, then sighs. “What if I try and fail? What if I don’t belong there?”

You meet her eyes. “What if you do?”

That stops her.

“I’ve spent my whole life being told who I am,” she admits quietly. “Rich girl. Party girl. Disaster. I don’t know what I actually want.”

You take her hand. “Then this isn’t about school. It’s about giving yourself permission to want something real.”

She flips the brochure open, reading course titles out loud. “Creative writing… child development… fashion merchandising…”

Her voice softens. “I kind of like the sound of those.”

You smile. “Then chase the one that makes you feel excited and terrified.”

Molly laughs, nervous but hopeful. “You make it sound brave instead of stupid.”

“It is brave,” you say. “Starting over always is.”

Later, when she finally circles a course with a pen, she looks up at you, eyes shining.

“If I do this,” she says, “I’ll need help. Reminders. Someone to tell me I’m not ridiculous.”