My mother raised me alone—the two of us against the world. She worked double shifts as a waitress at a small diner that smelled of burnt coffee and frying oil, coming home every night with aching feet and a tired smile she never let slip. Money was always tight.
I remember her sitting at the kitchen table late at night, spreading coins and crumpled bills into neat little piles, whispering numbers to herself as if they might stretch further that way.
I learned early not to ask for much.
So when she came home one evening carrying a long garment bag and wearing a strange glow in her eyes, I thought exhaustion had finally caught up with her.
“Close your eyes,” she said.
Inside the bag was the most beautiful dress I had ever seen—pale blue, soft fabric, delicate stitching. Something you’d expect to see in a movie, not in our cramped apartment. It looked expensive. It looked impossible.
“Mom,” I whispered, terrified. “We can’t afford this.”
She brushed my hair back and smiled. “Sometimes,” she said gently, “we afford things with love.”
I wore the dress to school, and the laughter came immediately.
“Look!” someone shouted. “The poor Cinderella turned into a princess!”
They giggled and whispered, waiting for me to shrink. But I didn’t. I stood there—cheeks burning, heart pounding—and smiled. Because for the first time, I felt seen. Chosen. Loved in a way that wasn’t measured in pennies.
Years passed. Life moved fast—then too fast.
