"This is ridiculous," said Holly, exasperated. "It's getting to the point where I might as well just fill out both applications, take them to the mailbox, close my eyes and post one. Then I'd only find out which place I was going to when the info packet came."
"Well," I said, "If you did that, you'd need a loyal accomplice to destroy the other envelope, the one you didn't post, and not tell you which one it was."
There was a long pause.
"That would solve all my problems, wouldn't it?" she said.
"And add some uncertainty and adventure to the world," I agreed.
"Oh good," she said, with a sort of wicked delight creeping into her voice. "I'll do that then."
She'll take two filled-out application envelopes to the post office tomorrow, close her eyes and post one. She'll find out which one she actually posted several weeks from now. And in the meantime, I have a daughter who's going to Bryn Mawr, or Smith, and I have no idea which. Either way, I couldn't be prouder.