Before I came to law school in Toronto, I daydreamed about law school in Toronto. I am living somewhere downtown, with the love of my life, in a high place with large windows. Morning’s multi-coloured paint spills all over. We have children, who are far kinder and wiser than either of us, my pride in whom towers the significance of anything I’ve ever done or will do. At this point, I have graduated from Osgoode with shining letters into an innovative social justice practice. I then transitioned into the academy, where I am both happy and prolific. Will the kids go to law school, too? My partner, whom I met in 1L, and I have not speculated in any daydream about our kids’ careers. For the moment, we are reflecting on our LSAT strategies at the dinner table. The kids are politely withholding commentary on the vegetables. She asks me to recount every variety of logic game and to explain all personally troublesome examples from pre-2016 exams. Sipping wine, she reminds me that, despite my paralyzing anxieties, my performance turned out stellar. She omits that hers was better, but reiterates several tips. The conversation slowly disintegrates, along with the kitchen, off its emotional core. Its 19-year-old creator, passing warmly into weekday sleep, has let off his hands.