I scraped together every dime for two months to buy my daughter brand-new boots. But twenty-four hours later, she walked home in broken sneakers—and then the school principal called me in a panic.The kitchen light flickered above the small table where I counted out quarters and dimes into careful little stacks.Grief had a way of settling into the cracks of a quiet apartment, into the hum of the old fridge and the empty chair that used to be David’s. Two years gone, and some nights I still set out three plates before I caught myself.My daughter, Mia, sat across from me, her pencil scratching across her math worksheet, her dark hair falling into her eyes.”Mom, is twelve times seven the same as eighty-four?””That’s right, baby.”She looked up and studied my face the way she always did, like she was checking on me. “You look tired.”

“I’m okay. Long shift at the store.”I pushed the coins aside and reached for the brown paper bag I had hidden behind the cereal boxes that morning.My fingers shook a little. Two months of skipped lunches and walking instead of taking the bus had brought me to that moment.”You look tired.””I have something for you.”Mia tilted her head. “What is it?”I slid the bag across the table. Mia peered inside, and her whole face changed.She pulled out the boots: soft brown leather, the laces still crisp and new, smelling like a real store.”Mom… They’re really mine? Brand new?””Brand new. From the store.”Mia launched out of her chair and threw her arms around my neck. “They’re beautiful. They’re really beautiful.”