At 7 years old, my mom often took me out at night to what she called a “dance show.” The place was dimly lit with red couches, and strangely, I never remembered the shows themselves. As soon as we sat down, I’d drift off to sleep and only wake up the next morning at home.
Two decades later, while sorting through old boxes in the attic, I found one of her notebooks. Inside were pages filled with dates—each one matching those nights I thought were spent at “dance shows.” Next to them were notes like: “meeting confirmed,” “extra shift,” and “payment collected.”
That’s when it clicked. She wasn’t taking me to watch shows at all—she had been working late nights, picking up extra shifts to support us after my dad left. With no babysitter, she brought me along, letting me fall asleep on those couches while she quietly worked.
Holding that notebook in my hands, I finally understood. What once felt like a mystery was actually proof of her strength and love. As a child, I only saw strange nights out. As an adult, I realized they were nights of sacrifice—mom shielding me from her struggles, giving me peaceful sleep while carrying the weight alone.She never told me the truth because she didn’t want me to worry. And in that silence, she gave me more than rest—she gave me the gift of a carefree childhood.