Sometimes you just know. This deep down certainty, a quiet hum in your bones, that some things, maybe most things, are better kept entirely to yourself. For years, you know? Years. From that first semester, her acceptance letter from that big state school, the one with the good engineering program. She was so excited, practically dancing around the kitchen. And you saw the numbers. The tuition. The dorm. The books. It was a lot. Too much, for what we had. For what my wife thought we had, anyway. So you start, almost without thinking, a separate account. A small one, at first. Just a few dollars here and there, from the extra shifts at the site, the overtime on Saturdays. You know, you’d tell my wife it was for tools, or maybe a new part for the truck. Small things. But then it became… bigger. Every Friday, a direct deposit. Ten percent, maybe fifteen, straight into that secret fund. You’d check it, every Tuesday morning, at precisely 6:15 AM, before anyone else in the house was awake. Just the balance, no transactions, just the number. A growing number. Enough to cover her first year, then her second. And now, she’s almost done. Four years. Like a ghost ship, sort of, sailing parallel to your real life. You know that feeling when you're almost relieved it's over? This sort of… quiet exhaustion. No one asks, no one knows. My sister, she just thinks it's a scholarship, or maybe a loan. My wife, she thinks she’s just lucky, somehow. And me? I just carried it. Like a heavy toolbox, you know? Always there, always weighing you down a little. And now, what? It’s almost done. The balance is almost zero. And I guess… what do you do with that space? That quiet space where the secret used to live. It’s just… empty now. And a little… strange.