Between the nurses in the hospital there had always been a running joke of how sick days were more for appearances than usage. Whether you were too sick to come in to work or not, you would always end up in the same place. Carole had never had to use a sick day – nor had she ever wanted to. It was just her and Finn, and though at times she felt as though she was missing out on seeing her baby boy transform into the man he was becoming she knew that being sick, taking a break from work and life no matter how stressful, wouldn't pay for her son's college tuition. She could see in his eyes every time the subject was brought up how his eyes would haze over, his look becoming distant. He had given up on his future, but Carole had always believed.

Since he was a boy Carole had been saving. Every bonus she had received, change from the grocery store, hell – every penny she found at the bus stop. It had all been carefully stowed away in a jar underneath her bed. As obvious as it was Finn would never look there. When he was young he would only come running to her bed to escape the monsters from underneath it. With each flying leap she was assured that the possibility of danger frightened him too much to explore what truly lay beneath the creaking springs. As he grew older Finn forgot the monsters and stopped running to her altogether.

The jar had always been safe. With only pennies, dimes and the occasional bill Carole deemed it too large of a hassle for anyone to steal if they ever broke in. Eventually the one jar became two, and two became five. With each passing month she would look at the jars and dream of the future her son would have. Finn would never see it until graduation day. She would smile at him and tell him that when she had told him no, we can't afford to go out for dinner, or, no, we can't afford a new bike, she had done it in his best interest. The money they saved from eating out, from buying used, it had all gone into the jars. They would take them to the bank together and see if her hard earned work had paid off.

No matter what, it had been a symbol of her son's future. It was a way of providing for her boy and keeping him secure in his education. But that was when she had never taken a sick day.

She understood the medical jargon and the looks the doctors gave each other. She understood every beep of a machine and every click of a pen. She understood, but she didn't understand. How could she. Her whole life she had worked and lived for her boy and now she had three. Her baby, her love, and the boy she wished she could understand. The jars were supposed to be for Finn. They were never meant to be used as a back-up plan for when sick days ran out (which she knew they would). They were never supposed to be thought of when people crowded her from all sides talking about final wills, long term care, foster homes, life insurance policies – any of it.

She glanced up. The lawyer was still talking but it was like her mind was elsewhere, leaving her head empty like a shell. Just echoing the sound of the ocean through her ears. The jars were one thing in her life she had never worried about. But now amidst all her worries and the weight of the world, she couldn't stop picturing those jars sitting under her bed full of coins, waiting for the inevitable. Waiting for the end.