My mother spent her final weeks hand-stitching my prom gown while cancer stole what little strength she had left. I thought she was trying to give me one beautiful night. On prom evening, she tied the final sash around my waist and told me the truth.My mother was dying of stage four cancer. Her body was hollowed out by aggressive treatments that had drained every single penny of our family savings.I was 18, a senior in high school, and I had learned to hate the sound of envelopes sliding through our mail slot.Bills came in white envelopes, hospital notices came in blue ones. Insurance letters came in thick packets that made my mother close her eyes before opening them.Her name was Sarah, but everyone in our building called her Miss Sarah because she fixed everyone’s clothes with a lot of care.She hemmed pants, repaired zippers, altered bridesmaid dresses, and once stayed up until two in the morning fixing a neighbor’s daughter’s quinceañera dress because the girl had cried on our couch.

She taught me that when I was little. would sit under her sewing table with crayons while she worked, listening to the steady hum of the machine.Back then, that sound meant safety. Rent was paid. Dinner was cooking. Mom was close.After cancer, the same sound became rare.Treatment took almost everything from her, including her hair, her appetite, her strength, and her ability to walk from the bedroom to the kitchen without stopping.Then it took our money.My father had left when I was nine. He sent birthday cards for a few years, then stopped. It had always been just me and Mom, and she never let me feel like that was a sad thing.