The Cost of a Dream

I was 22, living in Lahore, and had just secured admission into my dream university in Karachi for an MBA. It was everything I had worked for—countless late nights, tutoring kids in my neighborhood to save up, and still scoring top marks in my bachelor's. But when the acceptance letter arrived, so did the breakdown of fees. I knew my parents couldn’t help—I was already the “burden” daughter, the one who wasn't married yet. I applied for every scholarship I could find, even emailed professors and admins for a fee waiver. Some replied, many didn’t. The result was always the same: “Unfortunately, we are unable to provide financial assistance at this time.” I sold my phone. Then some jewelry I got for Eid. Still short. A week before orientation, I gave up. My seat was released. I remember just sitting on the rooftop, blank. I didn't cry. It was like my body had absorbed disappointment so many times it had learned to stay still. Everyone around me thinks I was never really “serious” about going. That I just changed my mind. I didn’t. I still haven’t.