When I was seven, Mom frequently brought me to what she called a “dance performance.” The venue was dimly lit, adorned with plush red sofas, yet strangely, I hold no recollections of the performances themselves. Each time, I’d drift into sleep as soon as we arrived and awaken the next morning, tucked in at home. Two decades later, while sorting through dusty boxes in the attic, I discovered one of her old journals. Its pages listed dates that aligned perfectly with those nights I believed were spent at “dance performances.” Beside them were entries like appointment secured, additional hours worked, and funds received.
The truth dawned on me—she hadn’t been taking me to performances at all. She was working late into the night, taking on extra jobs to support us after Dad’s departure. Without anyone to watch me, she brought me along, letting me slumber on those sofas while she toiled. Those red couches weren’t seats for spectators—they were simply a safe place for me to rest.
Holding that journal, my eyes welled with tears. As a child, I found those nights peculiar. As an adult, I realized they were a testament to her boundless love—quietly shielding me from her hardships, ensuring I could sleep soundly while she carried the weight of our survival.
What I once viewed as an enigma transformed into one of the most vivid tributes to her dedication. She kept the truth hidden to spare me worry. In doing so, she gifted me not only restful nights but the warmth and security of childhood itself.
