I work two jobs just to keep our tiny apartment that always smells like someone else’s dinner. I clean constantly, but curry, onions, or burnt toast always linger.
By day, I ride a garbage truck or crawl into muddy holes with the city sanitation crew — broken mains, overflowed dumpsters, burst pipes. At night, I clean quiet offices that smell like lemon cleaner and other people’s success. The money shows up, sticks around a day, then disappears.
But my six-year-old daughter, Lily, makes it nearly worth it. She remembers what my tired brain forgets. She’s the reason my alarm goes off.
My mom lives with us and helps as much as she can. Lily doesn’t just like ballet — it’s her language. When she found a flyer for beginner ballet, she stared at it like it was magic. The price made my stomach knot, but when she whispered, “That’s my class,” I said, “Okay.”
I saved every spare cent: skipped lunches, drank burnt coffee, told my stomach to shut up. At the studio, I sat tiny and still scented like garbage trucks while other parents glanced sideways. But Lily belonged. She danced with joy, even when imperfect.
The recital was the night a huge water main broke. I was soaked, late, but I left the job, took the subway smelling like a flooded basement, and made it just in time. She found me in the back row and danced like she could finally breathe. Afterward, she hugged me and said, “I thought maybe you got stuck in the garbage.” I told her nothing could keep me from her show.
On the subway home, a man watched us. When I caught him taking a photo of Lily, I made him delete it. He did, awkwardly, then told me it mattered that I was there.
The next day, he came to our door with two suited men and an envelope. Inside was a full scholarship for Lily at a better dance school, a steadier job for me, and a chance to stop worrying about money so much. He told me his daughter, Emma, had died — he missed her recitals — and he vowed to show up for other kids. No catch: just support.
Now, a year later, I still wake up early and smell like cleaning supplies, but I make it to every class and every recital.