The Gap Year Plan

Mateo had been preparing his presentation for three weeks. He had made a spreadsheet, a budget, a calendar and, after some hesitation, a slideshow with photos of sheep. On Sunday evening, after dinner, he asked his parents and his grandmother to stay at the table, connected his laptop to the TV and took a deep breath. "I'm not going to university next year," he announced. "At least, not straight away."

His father put down his fork. His mother closed her eyes. His grandmother, who had moved in with them the previous winter, simply raised her eyebrows and reached for another piece of cake.

Mateo clicked to the first slide. The plan, he explained, was simple. He was going to keep his job at the hardware store until the end of the school year, and he would also work extra shifts on weekends. "By next June, I'll have saved six thousand dollars," he said, pointing at a colorful chart. "I've already applied for a working holiday visa, and I'm meeting a woman from an agency on Thursday." If everything went well, by the end of August he would be working on a sheep farm in New Zealand, and by Christmas he would have traveled around both islands.

"And university?" his mother asked. Mateo had prepared for that question. "I'll apply again in the fall, from New Zealand," he said, clicking to a slide with the word DEFERRAL in large letters. "This time next year, I'll be starting my degree, exactly like everyone else, only twelve months older and with a lot more experience."

His parents exchanged a look that Mateo knew very well. His father began to list the problems: it was dangerous, it was a waste of time, he would lose the habit of studying, and he would come back with no money and an Australian accent. "New Zealand," Mateo corrected him. "That's worse," said his father. His mother was quieter, which was more worrying. "We just think you're going to regret it," she said. "Most people who take a year off never go back."

It was at that point that his grandmother put down her cake fork. "I was going to do something like this once," she said. Everyone turned to look at her. "In 1971. I was eighteen, in Montevideo. I had a ticket to Paris. I was going to work as an au pair for a year and learn French, and then I was going to study art."

Mateo's mother stared at her. "You never told me that." His grandmother shrugged. "My parents said it was dangerous. They said I would waste my time and never go back to my studies. So I stayed, and I studied accounting, and I was very good at it for forty years." She smiled at her daughter. "I don't regret my life. But I still have that ticket in a drawer upstairs. I have often wondered who I would have become."

Nobody said anything for a long moment. Mateo's father looked at the slideshow, which was now showing a photo of a sheep looking directly at the camera, and then at his mother-in-law. "I'm not saying yes," he said at last. "But I'll look at the spreadsheet."

Later that evening, Mateo found his grandmother in the kitchen, making tea. She handed him an old envelope. Inside was a faded airline ticket, Montevideo to Paris, never used. "Keep it in your passport," she said. "For luck. And send me a postcard from the farm." Then she went upstairs, and Mateo heard her laughing quietly to herself on the stairs.