Every evening after my shift, I walked slowly past the boutique on Main Street. The dresses behind the glass shimmered like royalty—untouchable, perfect. I never meant to stop. I just drifted, watching them, wishing.
My black work polo felt like a uniform for invisibility. The mannequins looked smug in their satin and beads. I wasn’t just drawn to the dresses—I wanted to make them. But dreams are expensive. I was a cashier. I sketched on napkins and sewed with scraps from Dollar Threads.
Nancy was different—bright, kind, wealthy. We met over almond milk and daisies. She welcomed me into her world, especially her closet, where dresses hung like artwork. One day, I showed her the brass key I’d worn since I was a baby. She recognized it: a ceremonial key from a bank.
Curious, we went. Inside a quiet, polished room, a man handed me a letter written decades ago. It was from my birth mother. She had died young but left everything for me—a savings account, love in every line, and an address: 42 Cypress Lane.
Nancy drove. We found it—a grave under a willow tree. Lena Maynard, Loving Mother. Fierce Spirit. I whispered my thanks to her stone.
Weeks later, the money helped me buy fabric and machines. I made my first dress. Deep plum, inspired by Nancy’s gown. She submitted it to a fashion showcase without telling me. I got in.
“My mama would be proud,” I said.
“She is,” Nancy replied, smiling.
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