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 that might make them stretch further.I learned early not to ask for much.So when she came home one evening with a long garment bag and a strange glow in her eyes, I thought she’d finally snapped from exhaustion.
