Every evening, I paused outside the boutique, staring at dresses I couldn’t afford — not to wear, but to make. I was just a cashier with a dream, or so I thought.

The only thing I had from my past was a brass key I’d worn since childhood. One day, my friend Nancy recognized it: a ceremonial bank key. We went together, and to my shock, it opened a deposit box created on my birthday. Inside was a letter from my mother, who had died days after giving birth to me. She left her savings for my future — and her love written on every line.

Her letter led me to her grave, where I finally whispered the word “Mom” with tears in my eyes. With her gift, I bought fabric and tools. Soon, my first handmade dress stood proudly in my apartment.

Nancy entered it in a showcase, and I was accepted. For the first time, I wasn’t dreaming through a window. I was stepping through the door my mother had left open for me.