Driving in my sister's car, we neared the college houses. Stopping at a red light, weturned our attention to the houses. Students were outside putting up ropes oflights and decorations. My sister watched and her expression saddened, her eyesglistening. I knew where her thoughts had turned - exactly where mine had. Wewould never live in a house with college students; we would never decorate it forHalloween or Christmas; we would never again have that kind offreedom.

"That's stupid," I said, trying to end the silence. Iwas wishing the light would turn green and we could pass the carefree collegestudents.

"I'll never be able to do that," my sister said, tearsin her eyes. I knew I wouldn't either, though I had always wanted to go toparties, take classes, meet new people, and have time to do what Iwanted.

"I won't either," I sighed.

My sister looked atme and our eyes locked in a sisterly embrace. No, neither of us would do this. Wewouldn't be able to do many things, but the things we could do, we could dotogether.

We had good reasons for not being able to do those things. Ourgaze turned to the back seat. There were three car seats, all filled. One held adozing one-year-old, one a five-year-old looking out at the playground, and inthe middle, a two-year-old. They were all looking at us. Our children, mine thetroublesome two-year-old, and my sister's, the atrocious duo who could colorevery wall within five minutes.

We turned forward again and smiled at eachother. No, we would never decorate a college house, but we would make cookies,birthday cakes, science projects and memories. The light turned green, and wedrove past the college houses.