Every evening after work, I drifted past the boutique on Main Street. My steps slow, almost reverent. The dresses behind the glass shimmered — elegant, untouchable. I never stopped, but I always stared. They made me feel small, like I didn’t belong.
In my black work polo and name tag, I’d press a hand to the window and imagine how the fabric would feel. I didn’t just want to wear those dresses — I wanted to make them. But I was just a cashier, sketching dreams on napkins and stitching with scraps.
Nancy changed that. She lived in another world — silk closets, golden lights — but welcomed me in. We met by chance, and soon I was in her walk-in, touching gowns I couldn’t accept. She told me I had talent. Taste. One day, she noticed the key I wore. Said it looked like one from a bank — Hawthorne Savings. A ceremonial key.
We went to the bank together. I was scared. Unsure. But when I gave them the key and whispered my name — June — they brought me to a room and handed me a letter. My birth mother’s letter. She had died when I was a baby but left me everything she could. Love. Money. A chance.
She signed it, Mom. And at the bottom: “Go to 42 Cypress Lane.”
Nancy and I drove there. A cemetery, peaceful and still. Under a willow, I found her grave: Lena Maynard. Loving Mother. Fierce Spirit.
“I love you too,” I whispered. “I didn’t know… but I do now.”
Weeks later, I filled my apartment with fabric and machines. My first finished dress — plum with ivory buttons — stood proudly on a mannequin. Nancy visited often, always with wine and laughter.
One night, she handed me a card. An invitation. “Fashion Showcase, Des Moines.” She’d submitted my work.
“You’re in,” she said.
And just like that, my dream had a door. And I had the key.