I’d been awake since four, my legs aching from hauling bags, but I locked my eyes on her.
“I’m watching,” I’d reply, even when the room blurred at the edges.
If my head dipped, my mom would tap my ankle with her cane.
“You can sleep when she’s done,” she’d mutter.
So I watched like it was my job.
The recital date was everywhere.
Circled on the calendar, written on a sticky note on the fridge, saved in my phone with three alarms.
6:30 p.m. Friday.
No overtime, no shift, no broken pipe was supposed to touch that time.
Lily carried her tiny garment bag around the apartment for a week, like it held something fragile and magical.
The morning of, she stood in the doorway holding it, her small face serious.
Hair already slicked back, socks sliding on the tile.
“Promise you’ll be there,” she said, like she was checking for cracks in me.
I knelt down to her level and made it real.
“I promise,” I said. “Front row, cheering the loudest.”
