I’m Vera. I’m 17, and my whole world revolves around one person: my mom, Jade.
When my dad left us six years ago—for a neighbor, no less—Mom became both parents. She worked ridiculously long hours just to keep the lights on and food on the table, always smiling through dark circles and exhaustion.
Last spring, the doctor said the word I was terrified to hear: “cancer.” Watching her face fall in that sterile hospital room was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. But after months of chemo, sleepless nights, and endless tears, her scans came back clean. She was in remission.
She turned to me in that hospital hallway and whispered, “When I’m stronger again… I’d love to see the ocean.” It was the first time in years she’d mentioned a dream of her own—and I made it my life’s mission.
I took double shifts at Rosie’s Diner and started writing classmates’ essays at night. Every euro went into a shoebox under my bed. Eleven months later: €3,765—enough for flights, a hotel by the sea, and a week of sunshine for Mom.
Then came Aunt Viola.
She discovered my savings and “offered” to book the trip for me since I’m a minor. Relieved, I handed the money over. But days passed. Texts weren’t returned. Calls went unanswered. Panic flared when she unplugged her phone. I pedaled across town only to learn her “deal” had been car trouble requiring a €3,700 down payment. I’d been conned.
Crushed, I sobbed into my pillow alone. Mom was at work—I couldn’t make this another burden for her.
Three days later, a message from Marcus—Viola’s boyfriend. He wanted to meet. At the café, he handed me an envelope with forty crisp €100 bills: the full amount. He’d heard what happened and said, “You deserve better.”
A week later, Mom and I walked into a fancy restaurant on what Viola thought was her proposal night—and found Viola sitting at a table full of her friends and coworkers. Marcus stood and exposed her: “She stole almost €4,000 from a 17-year-old girl saving for her mother’s cancer-survivor trip.” Faces went pale. Whispers ran through the room. Viola’s empire of lies imploded in front of everyone.
That evening, Mom squeezed my hand: “Why didn’t you tell me?” I shook my head. “You’ve already carried too much.” We stayed on the couch until dawn planning Seaview Bay—our ocean trip of healing.
In the end, justice came. Viola’s car got repossessed, her social media went dark, she moved states—probably hoping to vanish. Mom and I? We’re lounging on our balcony over the ocean, lobster dinner on the sand tonight, sail trip tomorrow. Seven days without bills, cancer appointments, or worry. Just sun, salt air, and Mom’s peaceful smile.
I’m not angry at Aunt Viola anymore. She showed me who not to be. Marcus taught me integrity lives in unexpected places. Mom showed me love means sacrifice. And now, lying here as the waves whisper beneath us, I believe in the justice of kindness, and the vastness of a future earned by hope and heartbreak—and healed by love.