When I was seven, Mom frequently brought me to what she called a “dance performance.” The venue was dimly lit, adorned with crimson sofas, yet strangely, I hold no recollections of the performances themselves. Each time, I’d fall asleep the moment we arrived and wake up the next morning, unaware of what had transpired. 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 client meeting arranged, additional hours worked, and funds received.
The realization struck me—those outings weren’t to see dancers on a stage. Mom had been working late into the night, taking on extra jobs to support us after Dad’s departure. Without anyone to watch me, she took me along, letting me slumber on those sofas while she toiled. Those seats weren’t meant for spectators; they were a safe haven for me to rest.
Holding that journal, my eyes welled with tears. As a child, I found those evenings peculiar. As an adult, I saw them as a testament to her boundless love—quietly protecting me from her hardships, ensuring I could drift into dreams undisturbed while she carried the weight of our survival alone.
What I once viewed as an enigma transformed into a vivid emblem of her dedication. She never revealed the truth, sparing me the burden of her worries. In doing so, she gifted me not only restful nights but the serene innocence of childhood itself.
